He’s perfected here, zipped up
in his moist pocket of cemetery
dirt, the brassy flag of the dead
planted snugly above to claim
his clavicles’ bony epaulets
for the infantry of devouring angels,
the two sunken cups stuffed
with slumped chrysanthemums
and carnations I’ve brought
as bouquets. Poor flowers!
They don’t even know enough
to stand at attention-shoulders
back, feet together, spine straight.
They hunch here like me, bowing
with a gesture of willows. How
has my river run so swiftly by?
Each bloom on its spindle spills
out of its cup, falls down, tumbles
forward like a drunk into my squat
shadow. They refuse to sway here
gaily, to liven things up.
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