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.
