Antecedent coffins line out sedentary innkeepers

Lying-in, incubating, working birthday worms

The moderator of statistics sees, and has not come to terms

Resteels herself; thanks God for hurried health

Continued: vacillation with tenacity

The oils smells of heartwood and the late embalming

Caress stressed nostrils, fear a flare revealing

Told numbers totted up so breezily, at work, at home,

Within that insulate of office space contained...

No orisons, no sighs

A trickle shuffles past, say their demure goodbyes

A cleaner in a corner lifts an arm to polish round

Brass handles to a door through which the living entered, found

A solid hole corralled, the corner pieces of their woes

Impinging loss begot a heavy lot fixed up for them

The women in the South Hall; North the men

Lined near apart undistanced as like friend by friend

A conga, long straight avenues, a clutch of them

Not gone inspect the dead

The casualties of nature in its usual general sweep

Give answer to inspection by the company they keep

Illustrious so-called – those whom were commandeered beforehand

Joining the sale-queued ages, days converging infinite

Numbers unnumberable parade an acerbic deep -

The musing passers muddling, treading-water, near defeat

Iron time the chain to human flesh and variancy

A clog that runs in catalogue towards that samey end

Expending care with hope, asperity with scope to mend;

A Chimera or sēmeîon? - a thing no handles,

But keeps its sheen of polish; moves with seemly cleaning arm

And makes perhaps us suppers, ententes in an Upper Room?