In the purest hours

Of still thought and echoes

Where questions end

And graveyard begins.

 

Bereaved and better people

Jig to the beat

Of lost words, confused

By the soil in which

They diminish.

 

Children of ghosts

Real ghosts underground

Cry and whisper

In a shadow of stone.

 

They cry not for loss

Or doubt or nostalgia

They weep for the maggots

And the ceaseless rumble

Of their stomachs.