Saturday, December 27, 2008


My art is age-old, tricks smuggled over

Borders and passed down the aeons.

I make the dead lively—or pretty

Enough at least for a last kiss before

The long dirt slumber. My craft abets

Your grieving. I've got your loved one's number:

That flush of pink on his cheek, the part

In his hair precisely where he put it

When he was breathing. You'd almost swear

He was warm, never guess he'd been gutted,

Stuffed and sewn up like a scarecrow.

All my best work gets viewed once then buried—

But if I've got the mix right, you just might

Exhume a chef-d'oeuvre one day and goggle with awe.

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