Stationed

It's the other ones, who soon enough return

to being happy after the funeral, that are nearest

to their own deaths—in their gaiety

and everyday distraction, they're so open

and unguarded . . . anything could enter them;

could claim them. It's the ones who weep

incessantly that are saved for now, the ones

who have taken a little of it

into their systems: this is how

inoculation works. And sorrow is difficult,

a job: it requires time to complete.

And the tears?—the salt

of the folk saying,

that gets sprinkled over the tail feathers

and keeps a bird from flying;

keeps it stationed in this world.