Even if put down by death
prematurely, any one of us blameless
to the undertaker, it's still shameless
how we've held our selves up
under the protection of Job's
even-handedness
despite somewhere in some bibles, it's
been muddled and
translates...his breasts are full of milk
and his bones are moistened
with marrow... or ...
his bowels are full of fat
and the marrow of his
bones is moistened...
is a pail of milk,
a wheelbarrow with
sheep skull hood ornament,
and there needn't be dust
distinguishing us, finally,
but, how, one may wonder, how may disparate selves
lie under, share stuff, even-
things out
amongst their own bone shards
at last, never again having to
help God say what he meant to say,
maybe
keep some death away which has them dying
in bitterness of soul...
whether good life, bad life
