After 

The groundwork has been excavated,  

the sky turned pale and each raindrop turned to a nail 

After 

Great rolling thunder tears sails, frost gives frigidity a new meaning 

And you’re left wondering if when it rains it hails 

There is always a burial 

It is best  

To not get caught up as dried blood can look like dirt,  

And that goes two ways 

Under the mire I hear rumours there is a field of carnations  

And 

Your silence suggests this isn’t the first you’ve heard  

of white petaled processions  

Naturally I am left wondering  

If those flowers form a path between them, or if the wedding planners got mixed up with the funeral planners 

So now the orchestra outlines a great exit 

I am left wondering  

which diurnal birds gave up their nightgowns in such service 

After  

the wind has cracked apart a trunk or a spine, 

After 

The rain has weighed down your fingers or mine and 

After 

The stars give up their spears and I find them just before daybreak with cupped hands, and haggard prayers and a notion the whole sky might fall in just for calamity’s sake 

There is always a burial 

And, believe me, such spectacles are never kind