the november sky is less than grey

falling prey to an avian virus,
the sad swoop befalls at noon
crashes into a notice of macadam:
a doom of plummet apprised.

the eyes of God shine
from the head of a body
with an extra limp thumb.
it is a distraction
willfully left intact:
too much grasping
would paradise allow.

heaven opens,
there is a float
upon which clouds do angel:
a small dark silver
that rings a coin circle
at the burst of liquid free.
it is a hard part of crying
that burns the upper lip.

what we take from a graveyard
we bring in ourselves:
each of the stones
mark dusty bones
as alive to me today
as they ever were.