All the years are recorded on that blue apron,
your cold hands are a groom’s before I do.
bodies come in bags and are reclaimed by the living
The corridor of the mausoleum, grass, the tent, the many sad faces,
an occasional wailing in the small chapel,
look how splendid the funeral bus wears a black.
This is just another August for you
and we are finally here to say goodbye
take a few photos and bury our dead.