What kind of bellow
is this over bodies
stockpiled in trucks
cooled by—Lazarus’ finger?
Put it—
out of mind, yes,
like the names of the unburied, the
shot on the run, in the living
room, no room at all
on the asphalt.
Who would ever want to live
in this death valley, where
the temperature is hell, where
decay comes quickly
to those who wait to be buried,
relieved of what’s left
of their body’s moisture?
Has God been delayed,
again? This dusty state,
ashes everywhere—
on my car, in my veins,
floating from city to city
holding contempt for filters.
