ILL WORLD - SEPT 12, 01:CHRISTOPHER
Dawn sore morning sky,
telephone wires flick from flatline-
lost world back to life.
Wind slaps; then puddles
re-settle to diesel bruises,
and whole chunks of sky.
Bronchial branches nest clogged,
all heave and rattle, and then...
a spray of blackbirds.
Books of condolence.
At the church door's gaping mouth,
thrown up confetti.