Not really an odd time Not really an odd time to have a funeral the sky darkens as we put our loved ones to bed and a dove above croons its lullaby the rising stink of mothballs mingles with ironic stains of weddings on black jackets while this impudent pigeon in its fashionable gray struts his mating stuff on a stiff limb overlording all on a yew tree with she whom he loves we who are mateless and sob for it while we try to hold dignity in ceremony does this dove truly represent peace with his untroubled repetitious trance-like ventriloquism of his coos seeming so far away? Then bring on a circle of wolves to sing for us the sky darkens over this crucible of tombstones jutting like teeth anguished and decayed it will be time soon for the night creatures the twilight games they play under the moon speck as we walk away, two slip back to fill in the graves.
Clive Donovan
27
