LIMBS metal-cold and gorgon eyes
With nude enamelled mouth, she lies
Within a vibrant, moaning gloom,
Awaiting canker and the tomb.
And through a shifting polka-light
A clock ticks and the hours take flight,
Brown undertakers drag their feet,
Well drilled to harden at defeat.
One crumpled man with pale, thin hands
To hide his face and sorrow, stands.
With systole, a calm on all,
Diastole, they bear the pall.
A strangled sob. (What shakes the floor?)
The undertakers slam the door.
The orange sashes of the sun
Revolve to blood in unison.