Sunday, November 29, 2015

mmcdlxxxiv

Nearer Dying

It’s Easter.
All colored
with eggs.
A chorus of
empty carts
are piled
near the
garbage.
Er. The
garbage.
The garbage
is us.  Acco-
lades of
rotten eggs,
our breakfast,
to see us up
and out this
particular
mourning. 
No stone gets
unturned, we’re
thinking, as we
rise to the occasion.
Or get raised for it.