A Burial Options

[Guest_Ishmael_*]

They shift beneath the fringes of his attention – 
the witness things umbrella’d; the catatonic sky;
the traffic, bleary and hissing; a yawn – 
and study the soil.
		             Hands are pocketed to feel

for a crumpled ticket. Still in the ears,
and stares, of the customers black 
there loiters a certain summoning:
The Butcher’s Boy - 
                               “Number 26?”           his voice a cathedral of chalk.

The rain does what it can to fill the air,
and other holes that fathers seem to fit,
but never satisfy. The priest is done
and atop the muddy water
                                        a Lord, a Thou and a Loveth float.

[Thoth]

Hi Ishmael,
I was waiting for someone else to break the ice first because although it tries to speak to me, this one goes right over my head. It is too disjointed to follow, and while that may be a device to portray the state of mind of the subject, for me at least it does not work. Each time a thought gets going the direction changes and bucks me off.

Still that's just me, my simple mind needs things to be spelled out sometimes :)

Cheers,

Wally