Working With the Dead
The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing blow.
Some heaps hold,
ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.
I was called out into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is indeed a calling.
Meanwhile the dead keep falling;
my arms shake a cerecloth
into the vivid swirls of an afterlife.
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