Burial

They shift beneath the fringes of his attention – the witness things umbrella’d; the catatonic sky; the traffic, bleary and hissing; a yawn – and study the soil. Hands are pocketed to feel for a crumpled ticket. Still in the ears, and stares, of the gathered customers there loiters the latest summoning: The Butcher’s Boy - “Number 26?” his voice a cathedral of chalk. The rain does what it can to fill the air, and other holes that fathers seem to fit, but never satisfy. The priest is done and atop the muddy water a Lord, a Thou and a Loveth float.