Of the time of day, not quite right,

The slanting sun and chickens seeking out sun in the cold

Of October air.

Early, the evening light fails, twilights of hebetude, neither and or,

Forsaken or for the best,

All left ransacked and ramshackled

The cupboards of the self bare as boards but

Oh the memories,

The possibilities.

No way to die on cold wooden boards of floor.

Stiff body laid naked for cleaning maybe.

The higher purposes of sanctity and right action.

Are there enough of us to keep the proper rites of the dead.

Who is to ask them or us how we feel, but each other, ourselves

Wet as wells, the ceiling an ocular Pantheon circle of sky

And her passing light.

Day and night passing as the feet on the marble floor,

The cool of stones,

The necessity of frailty and memory.