Lazarus Asleep

the rain falls warm, the air is warm pinched in the middle days of winter the air is faceless in singularity before the sun is even spent the ghosts have eaten all there was to eat and the woman says we shall never go this way again the mourners, them veiled in frayed black lace the old womens' votive weeping singing spells at the old and wretched gate fine carriages have carried them off the glass in the window crafted eloquent in the chthonic fall of their tears stained, maybe by the gripping slip of fingers at the river's weaving edge long fingers strong from birth we shall never go this way again what is the color why the grasses grow so wild. ravenous over what? what is left whatever the farthest from the blindness of the indesinent night thought of with such tremble, temple, and pine