Snow Day For the Dead
If those buried beneath our boots
could rise today,
would they moan, turning shriven features
to the frozen earth,
or would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
sticking black bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and sockets?
Sadly some,
the frost-formed and un-melting,
might hitch rides on the windows of cars,
return to defunct offices
(briefcases stuffed with snow),
to labor over epitaphs.
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