Let all know the death
of words
the metal urn is rye molded
candy coated---I watch movers strain the yeast from his
eyes and mutter sumptuous things
filter the brains onto a carbonated train and send away

I know they'll go for testing at some far away institution,
and congeal meantime in a woven casket---red pulsation
hopes awaken, sunlight filters through the racked
and stops
they listen

but words don't speak. They know this
and weep; words are words, maggots on a page
stooped and incensed (caged, but look and see)
bound to a single phase (a close up entity)
I
walk a long way, strum a ukelele
in hopes---see---for a passage through the pearly gates.