The state cracked where they left your
No longer instrument.
Along the
The sand ripped up, and the newer
Streaked like a vein to every monument.
The empty smoke that drifted near the
Where the stiff motor pounded in the
Had the smell of a hundred burned-out suns.
The ceiling of your sky went dark.
A year ago today they cracked your bones.
So rot in a closet in the
For the bad trumpets and the
Long seasonable grief.
Rot for its guests,
Alive, that step away from death.
Yet you,
A year cold, come more living to this
Than these intruders, vertical and warm.
