Notes About The Poem
From the anthology, Scenes From the Cerebellum, a work in progress.
Blind Hearses
Blind Hearses
Another dubious nuptial at sundown,
Sequestered beyond the rolling tribal hills,
South of Spring Street across the bridge,
Down the road aways, maybe seven miles.
Another ceremony of spoken vows and tears,
Hidden carefully to the thorny south,
Behind myriad grape vines all around,
That lasso in the shadowed evenings of August,
With their ripened essences and moistened residue,
Breathe it all in now, this perfumed evening of lights,
Sifting into your nostrils, with no sound at all,
Except, shhh, do you hear those shrill voices in the distance?
Can you hear their wine glasses tinkling
And clinking, like melting ice in a sober shade?
Blind hearses travel this way all the time now,
Black and white and beige hearses,
All seeking a crossroad in the swallowing fog,
Carrying more astonished corpses,
Dressed in ruined starched finery,
Wearing nothing smiles carved like pumpkins,
Down the side avenues leading to the Shadow,
To the newly dug graves in the sunlight.
A chorus of fools will enter inside the back way,
As they have for decades of lost time;
They will come to chant mournful dirges
Into the non-listening, soul-stricken night.
As again, one of their own, finds the Shadow,
And the darkened avenue, with muted footsteps.
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