He had your ruddy skin
capturing sunlight
even as cold
his fingers interlaced
asleep in formaldehyde
his eyelashes like a girls
wet in regret
nobody should die yet
he would have said
his lips pursed for thought
devoid now
the little children crowded
coffins edges like spectators
in miniature
would he arise? like the wooden Christ
over-seeing his funeral
and shaking off his death
make them scream in delight
and run
like birds fanning sky
sudden and vital
defying nature’s flute
calling him home
long has he slept now
beneath the weight of grief
like a man who is bewitched by
lips of woodland nymphs
too red, too soft
to know not