Holding Hands At Funerals

Robots have perfect skin

And graceless poise

But are frightened of the silence

Of the moon when she rises

How we imagine dim the stars

In their fiery wings so that we weep

They measure tears in micromillilitres

But immortal souls in eight bit dreams

Is it wrong to think

In the palace of quiet grief

No one brings flowers to funerals

It seems they just arrive

The way a bird of paradise

Makes an inappropriate corsage

Holding hands in our dream of yellow light

In this foyer we are barren of myths

All we have are the symptoms

Of our grandiloquence

That we imagine beyond good or evil

A diagnosis of our ill-ease

That we are moved by such vast orchestrations

But not by small curled fists