Loose Gowns for Mackerel

One died of  a canceled dream.

One died of   looking into a certain fact.

One died and woke up in the act.

One died and kept his atoms intact—almost.

One died after finally hearing his own engine.

One died and became a cat’s small cry.

One died in a moist glass case.

One died in the heavy roar of a highway.

One died and the others unfurled a tarp.

One died asleep in the snow underfoot.

One died crawling in a cloud, was found

and wrapped in a flag and waits.

One died a hawk in summer heat.

One died and became small, became

a real doll, a real small doll.

One died stolen back on the in-breath.

One died a little cat and became a leopard;

one died a shepherd’s dog, became a shepherd.

One died in the door, a clutch of  bells.

One died in a circle of sound

surrounding closed lips on the ground.

One died near the exchange

where one dream meets another.

One died in a trap.