To appease our the discomfort around
rock, tree and dreams, at dawn from front doors
of houses, innocent bodies are lain
onto the arms of a faction of zombie technicians.
Mourning the loss of its loved one,
the air in the lounging place,
sorry about impolite nature,
kneels at the appliances in each room
until oxygen is CO2 with empathy.
At the funeral pyre it is always discovered
that one of the various parts
of the body was too sacred, -- and the heart
is petrified in the brain's sizzling juices.
The flesh and blood tool is saved
from damnation when it builds a hospital morgue
from which products too will be offered
for what the market will bear.