Something died
We dug a hole at the back of the garden
Mumbled in some words
And filled the rest with dirt

My mother missed the funeral
She was ten days in bed
And made strange snarling sounds
When we tried to change the sheets.

This thing has no face
And what do you call a paper swan
Unfolded out of grace,
In its blatant two dimensions,
With its hideous crumpled skin,
When it bares neither form nor purpose?