Lilian’s goats must be cold this morning.
The steam rising from a coffee mug
Tells you where to hang the blankets
And duct tape shaky window panes.
In an old draughty house
The most you can hope for
Is the last of your heat
To warm a dying bed.
When your thoughts turn
Not to songs and sonnets,
Multitudes and analogies
But to the factory where
Your death bed was made;
What kind of wages,
What kind of conditions,
What intent stalked that factory floor?
We’re all connected in the wind
But die alone lost in ephemera
Like a storm cleansing a forest,
The sound of bells heading to the barn.