Dead men drift here and there on restless tides,
washed as driftwood on a rain-decked shore.
Crows pick through the detritus, crass, craven,
and seated, the ministerial detachment surveys;
parleying with thin air, tapping stones with moccasin,
etching out the masterplan, no pretence to descend
until the paths are hollowed out, bordered, lifted
with coarse luminescence to a silent road,
in skies black above the jet engines’ scream:
A sign raised beneath, barely distinguished
beneath the decayed flesh, sand-washed bone.
A sun rises to catch the angry scrawls
in no language readable save the dead’s.