Screaming became the speech of choice
to wrap little fingers
all the way around the cord

Caused by minor fractures of vertebrate
as they trample past the dead body
conscious of little more
than their own

Attempting to pull themselves up
in a bucket
and out of an iron casket
where their skin spent the night

Streaming
Past the street-side graves
where the Past lingers on its way,
speaking with Death,
his lazy companion, and
working to take our bodies slow

But the bucket never holds
and broken bodies won’t hold their skin
On men built for coffins
in graves made for men