Morgue
(After Rilke)

They lie here ready, as if we ought to find
a mission for them—something they'd be told
was urgent, which might reconcile and bind
them to each other, even to the cold:

An invitation to a final club,
an unexpected scrap of paper found
in one of their pockets. The bored look around
their mouths, which someone gave a rub,

did not come off, but just got very clean.
Their beards are waxy, stiffer on the chin,
trimly agreeing with the warden's taste.

He wants us to appreciate the scene.
Beneath the lids, their sight has been replaced
with rolled-back eyes that dwell on things within.

Leonard Cottrell