and because i could not stop for death
weep the broken line of song the busted cords heaped upon the floor weep the silent birds the blank stare of the night sky weep the open chest empty of its wares this body is done for.
upon a slab upon a pyre one might consider the effects of chemicals poured on the effects of electric charge laid on how the long-absent hairs might have risen up with the motion of the moon might have lifted itself up and walked back to the earth but this body is done.
done for dancing done for reaching the top cabinets done for running its hands along the banisters done for hammering its feet upon the waters its hands upon the tabletops done for climbing up done for hunkering down before the storm this body is inside out is picked over by crows is thinned out with the winds.
it cannot lift the lids of its eyes it cannot pull the cotton from its ears the muzzle from its mouth it cannot locate its breathing apparatus cannot position itself to reach for its heart now suspended by wires from the blue ceiling in the blue room where God stands waiting in hospital scrubs, stands ready with needle and thread.
he leans over his mysterious silver cart then begins to separate the flesh from the bone the brain from the bone the soul from the gristle the ghastly interior from any leftover lightness for everything will be conserved and passed on, hand to hand down the long church pews, voice to voice petering out across the waters, stoppering the long throat of the universe, whimpering on its way out.
