after “Procession #1” by John McIver
There’s no description in the layered movement,
the steps, the quickness; even the ghosts are tired―
bones bent forward in a skin of wind,
leaning into impatience, into anxious unlifelike forms,
reaching for more than oxygen can give―
when the dog of work gnaws at the day’s short bone.
In the end, whenever you go, wherever you are,
We gather around to hear Bud Caywood read “Procession”.