but my hands are on fire

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

she'd be a blues baby

shuffling along a lazy dirt road

fingering her necklace and pearls

in a way making it difficult to decode

what she had in mind

even though she hadn't designed

her shuffle or her smile

and it makes it easy for her to beguile

my wondering and my inquisitive soul

i'd be listening to her chanting as she danced

and i'd quickly lose control

dreaming of mermaids and my former captain's life at sea

sailing among giant waves where there was never any guarantee

and i'd see her pause for the blossoming of a flower

waiting and watching for more than an hour

and i'd whisper into her ear but she wouldn't seem to hear!

she was on her steady road and it never showed

if she was waiting for me to reappear

or to simply disappear:

it's all in my dream 

so there's nothing here for me to redeem

i could be her castle and she could be my queen.

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

but hey Donnie!

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

who can know which way you tried to go?

walking thru a crowd of admirers with a pigeon-toe

and you thought you were a big time dime

but others thought you were a complete waste of time

the beauty Pageant girls thought you were weird
they didn't want to be speared

and you thought they were young and nice 

but they said your hands were like ice

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

when they saw you in black leather pants
you said you wanted a cheap hourly romance

but they only wanted to dance

and you liked riding in a big stretch limousine
bigger than the biggest block of New Orleans

on any Sunday morning
screeching your tires without warning

posing for pictures without any valid point

 
running hustles in every corner of every joint

parties with hardly a decent pause

skirting all the established laws 

whatever the age

it was always a comedy stage

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

to justify fortune and fame

you've relied on daddy's name

you swindle and waddle and wade,

your lasting reputation temporarily made

you are a master at this game

of momentary tinsel and lasting shame

a crooked smile upon your head
in love with whatever it is you said

hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

but hey Donnie! 

hey Donnie!

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

don't brood.

Patti Smith

i'm hot and down in old Mexico
my body naked from head to toe
escaping from a Pacific storm.

later, your arms keep me warm.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

i saw Patti Smith in a border bar.
she asked me if i'd like a cigar.

she said she likes to be called the poetess of punk.

she didn't seem to be too drunk.

she sang about lovers in the warm southern night.

she threw me a kiss in the broad daylight.

she had male friends who liked to nude pose.

they applied lipstick to their toes.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout
wondering what it's all about!

i saw refugees from a small Honduran town
crying men not making a sound
leaving for Paradise on their midnight ride
looking for anything to maintain their pride.

their children had wide eyes with tears

mouthing words flavored with their fears.

i saw Paris on a big screen TV
dressed as usual tres provocatively:
i heard her when she finally said
"If I were poor, I'd rather be dead!"

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

i'm sitting on my cloud of dreams
unsure of what this temporary existence means.

each moment quickly becomes the past
until my breath can barely last.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

it's all the rage

becoming nobody

i left a winning hand 

when my words were banned

from the bar stool where i lazily sat

contemplating warfare and urban combat

in a world where dust settled uncomfortably on the thin air.

so, i took a second look and it was no longer there

but no one could answer why

no need to get a job or to re-apply

the position is already taken

and if i'm not mistaken

there's a lot of drinking going on late into the night

and despite

a growing alarm at the insanity employed to tell the truth,

two couples necking in an adjacent booth

sat laughing at the music telling lies to the adjacent wall

but that's all i can recall

between quick sips of a memory and a news flash about a shooting

at the local armory where military men where seen recruiting

innocence ladies and their temporary lovers,

hiding under conservative covers

where their cover was blown.

the latest laws were quickly overthrown

by noon the following day

when the King and his Queen came out to play;

they were heard to say

there was permanent tooth decay

found in every peasant mouth

north east west and south.

while here i stand trying to get a grip

afraid of an inappropriate word that might falsely slip

but let the single chip

fall where it may

i'll soon run out of words to say

sometime tomorrow or maybe even today

when the sheriff and his deputy jump out and shout

"What the hell is this all about?"

but there's no taking account

of all the money i left on the poker table

when i was unwell and feeling unstable

and the lights went unexpectedly dim.

all that's remaining is the singing of my personal hymn

and a tap dance discreetly off stage,

i've heard it's all the rage

sitting on a flat tire,

offering myself out for hire.

lastly, i hear i've been rejected for the principal role in an important church choir

and that's something to crow about.

HILDA HILST

"With my dog-eyes I stop before the sea,"

said HILDA HILST,

lapping at her bowl of laughing water.

she stood hallucinating driftwood!

said she heard a kitten roar

with a mighty menace,

and her body began shaking,

her fur covered in burrs and bloated ticks,

the putrid smell of dead fish sweating from her pores.

i asked her if she were a dog

and she said she didn't know.

she tried to bark but mere words

came out of her canine mouth!

she told me she was living in a foreign country

where dogs were nameless,

and she slept in an abandoned shack.

each night, she assured me, she saw ghosts

smearing blood on the naked walls,

wailing and full of spite, 

hateful and red-eyed.

but here, by the sea, the waves were free and

she felt temporarily at peace.

as she slept on the damp sand, i watched

as she scratched an itch.

the tide was wet and the night was black,

like her eyes.

in the morning, as she dug for a buried bone,

 the sun rose heavily in the air.

Gertrude Stein

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned closer toward me,

asking for a light. 

she smoked my name,

exhaling from the promising start.

she tapped her ashes directly into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace.

 

we had clear words to say.

we heard a Piaf song flying slowly from the nearby boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard!

by the Eiffel Tower,

i sipped a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i remembered a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung inside a fancy modern frame.

and on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine, 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly provide the answer.

Picasso never wished Braque away

i heard her voice,
but Gertrude wasn't talking to me.
she didn't even know i was in 
an adjacent room, waiting by her front door.
she was saying that Picasso never wished
Braque away, but their rivalry was strong,
reeked of adolescence, and to survive
as great artists, they had to be apart.

i left before she was aware of my presence
and met up with my friend Tom, still wearing
his trademark white suit from the night before.

i complimented him on his recent writing.

he agreed with me that he was a special man who
considered his contemporaries to be literary pretenders.
He was completely vain, and i liked him for that honesty.

in his mind, there was never a doubt about his
writing skills, and any negative critic must be consumed
with jealousy or probably was a registered communist.

i felt comfortable on our walk, and listened to
him ramble on about Whitman and other champions of
a bygone era, when suddenly he told me i was the
wrong person for his confidences, mocking me
for my simple bohemian leanings. 

 he knew I worked in a cold flat, but accused me of not having
The Right Stuff, even though i labored as a reporter.

my feelings were hurt as he abruptly left me on the sidewalk
to go looking for America's future,
hoping to arrive there first, he shouted backwards.

i was about to find a cafe for a drink when i saw Pascin
with two young Parisian girls approaching, and he asked me to join
them for a meal, at his expense, before he fell into a depression.

the two women tried to help him up, swearing in rapid French,
but he must have been at the end of his rope.

he told one,
Hermine, 

to go home and wait for him in bed,
but he never arrived.

i think Tom would have liked him, had they ever met. 

to kiss you again

and

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again 

even Scotty Fitzgerald knew Zelda was in bed with a pilot 

not the airplane he flew 

before she was grounded

in a different sort of bed

yet he loved her far beyond his written world 

of Gatsby and a strange friendship with Hemingway

in France

and the dancing herd of the jazz age 

it had seemed all the rage 

to sail and sun and drink well before three 

yet he loved her when he no longer could write from memory

and 

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again.

Zelda was insane!

Zelda was insane!

she saved the last waltz for me
on her Turkish rug

while dreaming by
the Mediterranean sea
of a life beyond the doldrums,

which pinch & heat & chill;

they can torment a sailors' Spirit
and break the strongest will.

but her finest point, 

still spinning,

surrounds my beating heart.

and her secret jazz age dances

tear my stage apart.

Zelda was beautiful!

the hawkeye shine was in her eye:

it could capture moments swiftly
as sharp talons from the sky!

it held tight & flew forever
over solid and imagery,

and i heard her bravest whisper

when she saved that waltz for me. 

for whom does it toll? he asked

point the pistol at a head
paint it bulls-eye red

watch the pool of contrived thinking spread
over the slippery floor
always but nevermore

said the Raven once before

please tell me what ALL this is for
even if you're not sure
sitting virtually at the wheel of a speeding fully-leather car
passing everything

whoever it is you are

behind the blindfold

closer today to home, but really really far
away in the desert of your dreams
finding it's not always what it seems

there are ladies in the nearby parlor

sipping tea

talking of philodendron-colored pee

and how it made them feel

when the backyard pigs would squeal

the bed where we find ourselves 

asleep
is thick and deliciously deep

and we feast

our hours & hours & hours are steep

but we don't mind

someone else is climbing towards the sun

reaching with a smoking gun
body armor now undone

smelling the opium

and feeling so damn intelligent

it's not too late for our morning shower
whatever the song being sung

whatever the hour,

the King or Queen is ready

there's a bell being rung

but for whom does it toll? 

he asked.

Portrait of Andre Derain (1919)

was it le gros
or was it le petit
who each night fell in love
with a new English girl,
forgetting momentarily about the war in France?
ah, it was Derain.

he did resent Picasso for having it
easy, for avoiding the trenches that Braque
and he had been stuck in.

but that was then and this was now, walking
to the National Gallery with Pablo but without Olga.
and Pablo was generous, sketching a black pencil on paper
portrait of him which was of exceptional strength.

soon, Derain would marry Alice, who had formerly been 
a Picasso mistress.
but that was then and this was now.

Le petit was the Spaniard, who had no studio in London.

Derain was the wild beast who painted in Collioure

with the colorful Matisse,

long before Still-life with Dead Game

was awarded the Carnegie Prize.

Le Bal des Jeux (1922) on Rue Masseran, Paris

Man Ray snapped the shot
of Picasso's comedic eye
and there was indeed a wry smile
captured on film
which ultimately Gertrude Stein saw 
at a Beaumont party.
Picasso was dressed as a torero
and seemed happy for it, carefully
savoring extra caviar and sweet pastries
with his dainty cup of tea.
Olga made him do it, of course.
Were it his choice: hot beans,
cold sausage, and a few Bohemian friends
from the old days.
But, in this Paris spring and summer he was famous.
In winter, he traveled south, escaping
the fancy balls, masquerades, and the silly
Fitzgeralds.
He did not want to be an international
bird of paradise, as much as he admired birds.
He wanted to be Picasso, without upstaging
the invited guests.
His real eye watched the women, while
the real eye of Count Étienne de Beaumont watched the men,
and not very discreetly.
But he and Pablo remained friends,

even as they traveled to different body parts.

After the May 15, 1920 opening of Pulcinella

they had a ball 
in an extravagant dance hall.
Stravinsky got drunk
and threw out a trunk
full of pillows and hats,
and a great many cats.
the Prince, a celebrated dandy
sucking on Persian candy,
paid the full bill
for all the expensive swill,
mostly champagne.
The post-Pulcinella game
was a big hit.
all the beau monde came to it
in a procession of cars,
most directly from local bars.
Picasso, of course, and Massine,
among the first to be seen,
were at the front door.
dancers already on the floor
included Olga, the Serts,
and several infamous flirts.
the opera was an excuse
for their consumption of aged juice.
many shared a laugh and an epiphany.
the party went on until 3!

reading Hemingway

the campfire burned a bright flame on top of my hunger 

i hope everyone knows by now:

we're not getting any younger.

thus, cold time reclining in the freezer calls my name! 

it sounds like old geezer 

while the cod on the cape has lots of wealth 

& ladies stroll the beach for health 

but i can't go there 

with my heavy head of thinning hair 

and share 

their dream of paradise... 

no, it's a lump of coal a chunk of emotional ice 

an alley with a deep dead end 

and one is dumped there without any friend 

without a lively book, no color on a questioning face 

that one didn't paint or trace. 

but this appetite on my tongue isn't a hangover from when i was young 

it's tasty surface, like a passion, 

persists beyond any passing fashion 

as sun brightens the fire and burns the kiln-dried wood 

it lingers in the bones and makes them feel so damn good 

running full face inhaling fresh air swallowing embers while playing dare 

reading Hemingway; reading Crane 

thinking youthful shit with an active brain 

dancing to a temptress's song 

and trampolining naked which is never wrong:

it simply feels where i belong.

Luisa Casati

Venice never closes!!

And Casati never stops her flamboyant dance,
while Rome has monuments and artists in
narrow alleyways full of hope.

My broken camera captured her movements
of orange hair with twisted curls in front
of the ruins of antiquity, where her dark eyes
sat on the marbled shoulder of Hercules.

This gay Italian city watched her
in Medusa dress strolling with jeweled leash
leading two borzois, one black, one white,
to an audience with the Pope,
but he was busy playing bridge.

Upon watching her pass, I went straight to my house,
hoping for an invitation to her dinner party, but it arrived
sixty years too late.

Posing on her polar-bearskin rug,
as others took siestas during the Renaissance,
she heard The Volga Boat Song and on the first playing,
she noticed a bold red circle with an empty center
smeared on the title page.

It was Picasso pimping for the Bolshevik
uprising against the Tsar, dabbling in paint,
while his friend Stravinsky scored the tune for
the Ballets Russes, where Olga played a part.

Later in Paris, the largest cloud in the world
sat on the waterfront near Montmartre,
where tourists spent their day with wine
and local cheeses, learning rudimentary French.

Nearby, Casati's Palais Rose was built of red marble
and was naked except for images of herself,
many tall and skinny.

If she were insane, as was rumored, she would have had more than
two arms smelling of incense and a necklace
of love bites underneath her river of pearls.

She died in London on June 1, 1957, many years
after Shakespeare, and is buried at Brompton Cemetery
with a taxidermed Pekinese dog
resting at her feet.

The dog loved her.

Campari

immigrant hair alive on the side of her ear 

thick with an accent 

her blue eyes shine a northern light upon her pleasant voice 

food or drink? 

offered a choice i chose both 

we talk long of people and places 

wine and song 

i find it very pleasant 

she is brilliant i am anxious 

she is resilient 

well-mannered 

with a bottle of Campari 

we behave perfectly with books on our laps 

opinions a few 

about Picasso and Pound or whatever we knew

it is all so perfectly fine

so whatever happened to the time? 

in Juarez

 Pancho Villa spreading fear raided north from Mexico he crossed the Rio Grande river near the Texas border town of sleepy old El Paso Bob Dylan meanwhile fingering his early morning mug of hot cocoa and nursing a just born baby slo gin fizz thought Pancho was loco watching from his desolate square in Juarez dodging bullets & writing songs because too few people were visiting there attending church or righting wrongs he heard the horses with sweat on their brow speaking Spanish with envy in their voice they wanted to be unhitched and they wanted to be given freedom of choice and then it was Easter time too the dust of one thousand assassins settled in to chasing children and hunting for sharing a sin and grinning a grin it seemed they were from another world instead they didn't believe in Jesus Christ or the game of baseball and they hit young Robert Allen Zimmerman in his head just as he was about to call Pancho Villa on the phone and say there shouldn't be any more crazy killings today but the Women's Temperance Union heard the ringing of the march starting from their headquarters in town they began to sing: "the Cadillac bar is no place for a beer it's the devil's plaything we've come to fear put down your glass and begin to think if it gets too heavy we'll start to sink." well, everybody heard the protest and began to swoon as their parade route was full of fallen people and unbelieving spectators and a Catholic saint hanging with his parachute from the nearest steeple but no one was looking for a happy hour answer Pancho Villa was riding into the state & on his knee was a pretty Dallas cowboy dancer and the crowd didn't seem to mind that he was running late the band began to play a famous Sodi Miranda song about Cassanova and how he came to know that romance never stays around for very long it always thinks it's time to go and then they saw Robert Allen Zimmerman fall just as he was about to call Pancho Villa on the phone and say there shouldn't be any more crazy killings today and someone said he was going back to New York City 'cause he'd had enough.

Coco, that sewing woman

the blue train was boarded by Coco Chanel
and her friend Misia Sert, 

with or without tickets it's impossible to know.
but what is certain is that, frequently,
they dreamed of attending the last great
Ballet in Paris and were in a hurry.

they invited old friends to join them,
men and women of course, who enjoyed
rumors and gala premieres,
especially when the music was provided by a lover,
like Stravinsky, who was not on the train.

no, he was at that very moment nicely ensconced
in Chanel's apartment, working on a score for four
pianos and some voices, one of which was silent.

but on the train, a florist who wanted to hold a party
walked the narrow aisle selling beautifully decorated
arrangements and Coco bought several to share
with her friends;  they all smiled just as the train
began to move.  

they knew a beautiful blonde Russian princess was the chief engineer
and it was she who blew the whistle to startle the passengers,
who were looking out the windows to see several prominent
surrealists following the tracks, laughing their heads off.

Coco and Misia saw them and began to laugh, too.

soon, everyone laughed!

the princess, perched on her forward seat, steered the train
away from the station.

she laughed.

it was a one-way track, but proved easy to get lost.

and no one cared.

Port Antibes with the Murphys

By the summer of twenty six
Many hotel guests ran out of tricks.
By October  of '28
Those remaining realized dinner was being served late;
Even their dessert put out to sea
Where it sank ignominiously
Like the crumbs of a banquet from the prior week.
Few looked back or cared to speak
When they saw pictures of Mussolini on every wall.
Some memories the Murphy's cared not to recall,
Like the sale of their Weatherbird boat,
Which faded with time and seemed fairly remote
When viewed from the depths of Fifth Avenue in 1942.
The Spanish civil war was over and Picasso spoke
From his studio as the levee broke
for Gerald and Sara, Scott and Zelda, and Hemingway.
In America they would all have their final say
After leaving the twentieth century of Paris in flames.
Picasso remained to continue his games!
First one wife, then two:
Countless ladies but what could a modern master do?
Meanwhile, Sara kept a rose in a tall vase in her New York entrance hall;
it was what Fernand Léger pointed to when he saw
the simplicity and exclaimed "The value of that!"
Everyone agreed and tipped a collective hat
for Gerald, who wanted to go outside to play.
He put down his brushes with nothing more to say.
He painted when he was younger, but not often or much.
He always felt he had a second-rate touch.

A regular guy

Steven was a regular teacher 

just a regular guy 

with no thought of moon walking into moving traffic 

his contract schedule obliged him to cover for my break.

he came into my classroom with his quiet shuffle 

(damn, wasn't he the band director?) 

and sat his thin ass on the thin chair spinning it to an exact spot 

a spot he wanted

his spot 

and faced the wall of windows without looking outside 

without seeing the dancing cars 

or the blue sky 

or the perfectly unfolding flowers 

and cumulus clouds tapping their happy feet northeasterly 

to party the night away on the Lower East Side 

with Patsy and the Nighthawks. 

he placed his grey laptop on his lap 

his hair was thin and short and dark 

his eyes dark 

his mood dark dark, too, his shoes tied with dark laces 

his suit dark his skeleton dark 

inside crawling across the dark mental desert searching for some holy waters. 

he told me he would babysit my kids for 45 minutes. 

fine. okay. I won't be too long. 

who wouldn't want a chance to play? 

but before I walked away toward the noise of the cafeteria, 

Trent said goodbye Angie said goodbye Nick said see ya 

Trent said alternative ed sucks 

Trent also said it's a good thing Mr. Hollman isn't teaching again this year 

Trent said shit 

Trent said when he was no longer on probation, 

he'd be drinking beer on the weekend, 

licking foam from the lips of girls he'd like to fuck, 

and being a good student of animal behavior Trent liked to smoke pot, he said 

and he bragged he could roll his own with one hand, 

his fingers being limber and full of fun. 

so after I walked out, Steven wrote a message 

on yellow lined paper-notes to himself-which he later used to compile an incident report: 

he slid it into the high school Principal's inbox 

his report complained about Trent and his casual display of disrespect, 

Trent's use of profanity was highlighted.

Steven was sending his paper missle strike at Trent's walled compound, 

using a joy stick to bring pain. 

later, I was called into the Principal's office. 

what the hell was going on? 

I told the Principal that Steven was exaggerating!

that everything he said was more than what he heard 

So screw yourself Steven 

You're just a regular guy, 

A regular guy

still squeaking from that cold morning shower, 

with your shaved American smile, 

no perfect tooth misaligned 

I want to puke on your shoes, 

remove the fancy laces, 

& shine a light on the darkness in your eyes.

I'll use profanity

and maybe blow smoke up your ass, just for fun.

Stella's chocolate cake

old grandmother made a killer chocolate cake 

with cocoa powder for Christ's sake! 

cocoa powder? 

she used vinegar for the baking soda that came all the way from South Dakota 

and flour and white sugar to mix with one cup of salad oil and vanilla for taste 

hand whipped without haste 

2 cups of cold water into the dry mix 

then fold gently into the pan use the spoon for discreet licks 

while cooking at 350 for 30-35 

then top with peanut butter icing but not too thickly applied 

totally yummy in your tummy! 

Papa in Paris

everybody knows that Hemingway 

was in Paris 

just the other day, 

with the lost generation and Ezra Pound, 

marveling over all they had lost 

but suddenly found. 

Gertrude Stein and James Joyce and Scott, the significant others, 

some married, 

often with lovers 

losing their innocence 

like Papa! 

who should have known better but lied:

he went to go get her instead of the train 

so, surrendered his own wife

long years before his took his own life.

and long before The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer 

and he the Award of Merit, 

and he didn't even need to share it.

in the trenches (with Apollinaire)

my wounded head was loosely wrapped with a military black bandage.

no bloody leakage was noticeable.

as i made my way to the front of the assembled crowd.

ahead of me was a noted celebrity, and i thought i
knew his name.

but no, it wasn't who i guessed.

it was Matisse!

he certainly wasn't my best friend or even, in
such circumstances, an intimate acquaintance.

and i saw Cocteau with a green face who
seemed eclipsed 

by the expressive music of tonights' show:

i could always
count on his envy, so clear and simple, like a sustained whole note
held for an indefinite length of time.

eternity!

he was upset and tried
to grab my attention.  

when he spoke,
i noticed even his tongue and teeth were green.

he invited me to contribute a poem for his next play which
was due to open a month later.

so, i wrote a piece about androgyny.  

he loved it and promised
to dress the part of a liberated woman.

later, when he gave birth,
he unbuttoned his blouse and released two helium-filled balloons.

the balloons were green.

the widower on the roof

the widower on the roof

was what the bitchy boys called him:
it was fun to hear their laughs.

he was terrified of typhoid, it was true,
and kept his distance from a lover
alone on a death bed, who would
soon die with no one by his side.

but Cocteau held no illusions about being brave
and fled!

by being in Monte Carlo, he missed the funeral
which was talked about later as being
a service en blanc: white eyes seeing everything
in white, including the white horses hired to pull the hearse.

the young man who died was a poet, poetically speaking.

his sorrowing fans followed the horses in a freezing rain.

wet and cold behind the black band they moved

to their lively music,

all the way to the white cemetery
where white flowers
were piled neatly upon a white coffin
placed carefully next to a freshly-dug white hole.