the snow shifts just a little
and a skull shows itself
now, now a clavicle, now
a hole where his heart was; inside it
, a galaxy; beyond that, the universe:
his, not ours.
Twenty years ago, a president buried its axe
in this dead man’s spine. And in that woman’s pelvis. And in that child’s mind.
And every year since we’ve gathered here to look at the bones. We don’t bring flowers.
There are no flowers anymore.
We do not offer consolation.
There is no-one to console.
All that remains is us–
the fleshless–and the president
that is not a president anymore,
lips pursed, withered skin…
from its tower it watches the rubble sleep.
that’s all that’s left. us and it.
it and its pile of bones.