In a coffin box or casket;
destined for a body basket.
Looks of porcelain and plastic.
Wrapped in bands of dark elastic.
Quiet, searching for my mask
it’s at the bottom of this flask.
It’s last the question left unasked,
and left to bask the sunny past.
So pardon pain behind a cast,
containing fragments of the mast:
a shattered ship blown out of glass:
recycled from your molten mass.
I think connection came to pass
my heart shaped box beneath the grass.
The good is brief in living’s tact
our shapes align, combine, retract.
Then the vision shudders, blacked;
the eyeballs blank and plaster packed.
You kept your statue faces stacked
on hand to hide me from the facts.
So I’ll let that nothingness attract
to watch you hide from the attack:
you really hide your body’s lack
of any spine inside your back.
If there’s peace I’m going to last it.
The plastic look? I can’t see past it.
If death’s the question, we’ll all ask it:
we’re all reserved a body basket.