When we knew him at the dinner table we could not imagine
all the work he did with his hands between LA and Chicago.
He spoke pink-tongued of your sister, leaving her nameless.
Tomorrow the leftovers will be ground into patties
Left to mold inside the refrigerator, fester.
(In his shoes men kissed the earth.)
He should like to stand on the vapid
landfills of emotion whispering
incantations to God.
When we met him in the graveyard,
we in our sun-dappled skulls danced;
he spoke but said nothing.
In December clouds, misers reminisce.
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