Evening's long
shadows
lay peaceful between
a walk in the neighbourhood
where the windows are looked at,
not through.
And the air is not
shattered with alarm.

Behind the church doors,
in the pews: a congregation
is dead.
I take them downstairs
to be buried.
The preacher is undisturbed.
" Where the dead lay
the crows will gather."

This game played
between the ears.
My own arm
beating my own head.
The small cry
is the small fry,
so the bully
bellies up,
filling his hole.
Always in need of more.

Beside an ancient well,
with stillness
under a dark sky
with diamonds.
There is no natural,
nor any contrived.