Invariably I compare,
as your sigh softens,
the poets sorted
alphabetically
in their silent coffins.

In purgatories
you see us from above,
young, old,
brown haired,
white and gold.

Demons, their skin wet
from the effort
of staying afloat,
are in singsong chatter.
Their sigils cast

radiating shadows
on our bodies huddled
in large posse.
We speak well enough
but the words mash up

in this landscape
of red trampled clay
to mix with the hum
of incantation
from behind the fence.

You pick one up and start.
It's written in Russian.
I am little.
You try to explain.
Nothing makes sense.


jam16