Lay these words into the dead man's grave

next to the almonds and black cherries---

tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes,

and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head.



Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids

like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers

that will flourish, this time, in the shade.

Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain.



Lay these words on his drowned eyelids

like coins or stars, ancillary eyes.

Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots

while thunder addresses the ground.



Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled,

the words have united in grief.

It is the ghostly hour of lamentation,

the void's turn, mournful and absolute.



Lay these words on the dead man's lips

like burning tongs, a tongue of flame.

A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks.

Let God pray to us for this man.