Of that town

The woman sleeps
in uncertain relief.
Suspended, this little bed, quakes no more.
I was upheld, rather
like a drifting feather,
nipped .

His crescent laugh
looks out to the end.
The man who braced me, laughing - gone.
The many hovering faces,
flocks of voices all gone.

Who told them these tales?
Who placidly loves me so?

Now I hear a tune composed
of absolute air,
Spring be me!
A yellow gleam capers
and podgy little fingers.

**

Again! Trying again to meet;
I flipped the titles in vain.
Suspecting some
dreams to be disguises,
I pulled beards, pinched noses,
gave them scrubs..
only to find myself
blanketless, cold.

**

Yesterday I was called
to Crematorium.
Grand old chapel.
A grand coffin stood
on a grand bier
dressed rich, plum velvet.

"Am I dead?"
"No."
"Then who is?"
"None at the moment."
"Who's coffin is that?"
"None's. Strange fancies.
So we lay every body in The Coffin for
a while and take 'em away. "
"Ah, to cremate, in that imperial dark tower ahead -"
"We don't cremate, we bury."
"Why call yourself crematorium then?"
"We don't. They do. They say it's hard to change."

"The tower -"
"- is someone's lost symbol.
I prefer to daydream up there.

Come this way to the most admirable plot.
We are indeed a special place.
This is where we 'give it away'.
It's fine business, you see the gardens? Orrnnate!
Every one gets an identical blank stone -
pews for the garden-goers."

"Whoa. Don't the relatives complain?"

"Well, we are select.
Deal your own dead if you don't accord!
In fact none calls back.
They don't remember no thing.
No where, no how, no why."