This is the night the dead unbury
themselves & sit at my table;
they do not know that they are dead
& how would I convince them?
After all, I have prepared, according
to their taste, the steaming peasant
meal set between their silverware;
arranged their shining shapes pulled
from the attic, with maudlin accuracy
& livened their very countenances
with the blush of poinsettias, hanging
from their picture frames. Yes, it would
appear that all is too in order at this
familiar hour, in this strange century
as we sit, together again, comforted
by the porcelain eyes of the infant
curled on the sawdust floor, nestled
among his happy & lifeless family.
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