Every home is the same home.
Wishful thoughts of fighting free of the knots, a form of governance, a shape to time indifferently won from the whirling flight of a strange bird, remote and still, and moving, do not ask who goes and who stays.
A chorus of incantations blows the lucky day into a cold tune, until it blows out blood, until eyes crack before they close like scars, until, in the light, tempestuous shadows form a crystal clear uncertainty.
Now that the first drop has fallen, the blood will all run out. Since life after life still returns to the same deception, the same rite, empty of everything -- therefore death has it all.
Funerals by sky, by earth, by water, by fire, and by wind. A burial in a suspended coffin.....