Death warps time as it passes
for those counting
bare wire
minutes
following the news.
Water too is tainted with metal,
and every passing hour is sheer agony,
it cannot be, it cannot be, it cannot be.
Sadness like a wet rag turned over tight
and back again
over a large empty sink.
"There is a moon, a bone slip of light,
cool air, but damp," is the weather reported
every year after. Wind sung the sheets,
the rain barrels spilled over into the yard.
In the rainstorm the lonsome thin barbed wire
fence whines in wind gusts.
Tabled is baked loaf bread, fat farm butter
in an open butter dish, links of sausage.
All shapes define the coffin.
No one is hungry but children.
On the clothes line, the bluejays gather like bullies
and holler, the minutes fatten with time.
