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lyrics

We gather to eat ourselves
sick after the funeral
sick of the pastor whose mouth
billowed like his white cassock
Wasn't it awfully breezy
in the graveyard we lowered
our heads and began signing

our hearts over to loved ones
No matter how we huddled
the ice-breeze snaked between us
I held one hand up to shield
the sun who at his zenith
had it in him to brighten
one hundred withering nights

but in the order of things
it seems he too needed sleep
and the candles were barely
prayer enough not fire enough
for constant vigil within
the family the home the den
the coldest month they were snuffed

credits

from loosestrife​/​tightgrief, released June 1, 2010

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Shane Murphy Poughkeepsie, New York

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