From womb to tomb
without and in-between.
Escape that hole you’re in:
it’s not black,
just very, very gray.
Dance upon the sea,
wearing a moon tiara,
waving a sun baton;
celebrate that slice
of being called life,
and sing, sing, sing:
“Let the dead bury the dead
in their prolonged weekend at Bernie’s,
where the women paint their faces
for men equipped with artificial woodies,
ready when you’re ready,
but not ever-ready—
after four hours
must call the doctor,
the undertaker or
maybe just the tree surgeon.”
August 10, 2005
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