BLANK BROTHERS MORTUARY COMPANY EXISTS

One day I went in there
on a lark.  Upon a slab
was a dead man.  What
a stupendous achievement
a dead man is!  At last,
something that is total,
a mountain of completion.
And like a tower
great with lightning
and shock we cannot see,
fathomless peace.  I
was a young guy on a lark
who had been brought by forces
like hands upon shoulders
to learn what it is to be
and not to be
at the terminus of a very
long day.  What wonders
this dead man
would have revealed
with a mere word!

On an everyday basis,
parroting the cliches by which
the order
of society is maintained
even the few who have
the genius
to reach
for the unequivocally amazing
forget not only that
one day, if accepted,
these discoveries will be
but inclusions
in the general, necessary,
parroting of our species,
but they also let slip
the incontrovertible
recognition that one day
they, too, will occupy
the bier
and there
will learn, finally!
of things:
Vistas!  Times!
Opportunities!  Lights!
Just unavailable here.

Death is a hall into which
all of us must pace.
But it is without
a normal lobby.
Its ebon doors,
garlanded by stone wings
hovering a blank
convex cameo,
have no handles,
opening to us
each by each
only from inside,
the other side.