There is blood on her fur-coat,
from when his nose started to bleed,
when she embraced him,
at the funeral.
There is a tear on his shoe,
from when she cried,
as he held her,
at the funeral.
There is lipstick on his cheek,
from her parted, seventy-year-old lips,
from when she kissed his cheek,
at the funeral.
And there is Julie, who is three,
doing silly magic tricks,

here, all pretense is
gone, the situation is
plain and simple: we
are a small group of
people, we are alive
standing beside a hole
human hands dug with
shovels, dirt piled into
a mound, square sides
of the hole scraped clean

in that hole, in that
plain wooden box
is a body, formerly
a person. in that hole
the world as we know
it has ended forever.
the sun shines, it