Winter muffles whys—builds camps
to cover lies, and sing, and pray,
and rank-and-file amazement
underneath the grave. For whom? For hymns
to cheer the worker tasked with robbing
coffins—refund for the nauseous
ever-trope. The price to cope
may mount, but saints will light your way
to greed-bared aisles, and holy phantages
watch you in your motel,
and smile, and gather shells that held
self worth (picked dry—your kids don't need
them anymore). Now deck the wedding:
brides of clever ruse and grooms-to-be
lined up in civic mass, one shotgun
glance away from trumpet's vengeful blast.