Bring Out Your Dead

I have found it is useless to bury
the dead, or to burn them. They still
appear daily, planking on guard rails
and on the leafless branches of trees
in the spring. I’ve seen them stretched
out stiff among magnolia blossoms,
always naked, dry skin tight over bone;
and across the narrow laps of people
seated on narrow benches feeding
pigeons and gulls, wide eyes watching
for a sparrow to fall, searching among
the bright crocuses. They are naked
because the clothes in which they were
disposed were never theirs; dull, funereal.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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