The long wake continues,
quiet and moronic expressions.
The jowl of the dead
is agape with infinite abandon
as if he were about to sing:
if we concentrate
he may remember the words.

In comes a man with a dog
on a chain; than several others.
The room is bathed
in plaster of paris.
In the background
a deep, abundant fugue has begun.
The piece is dedicated 
to me. How strange,
I thought I was new here.

They stop playing,
file quickly into another room.
As I begin to leave
shafts of darkness reach out
and close the little door.