Burial

The dead are not alone.
The shovel also services that
which cannot be allowed to live, 
but doggedly refuses to die.
Those fixed flames that will not be 
doused flicker on and suppression 
brings but a smoky revelation
that demands a digging of the 
most excruciating kind.  
Gouging the ground, we kick our
searing cinders into the chasm 
we have created, leaving no 
marker save the scald on our soul 
and the palpable absence of 
what we can suffer to bury, 
but not kill. It will continue to 
burn, unseen by those who it can 
consume and felt only by we who 
can hardly bear its howling heat.

Backdoor

I see you there...all right angles
and making so much sense in a
house where hope withdrew through you
long ago and sanity shortly
followed. Sipping on your sweet
slander, I believe you to be
my best bet on this barren beach
where salty waves sting my wounds
and the sea already sings the
dirge of my coming departure.
There on the horizon is your
rectangular retreat from the
circular logic that replaces
my reason and drives me to depths
I cannot displace. You patiently
tarry as I cultivate the courage
to make my eternal exit,
dropping my cumbersome bones at 
your doorway and collecting the 
weightless cloak of my final absolution.