Postmortem

The circumstances of the murder were
Mysterious -- it wearies us to find
We cannot find a body -- growling cur,
The murderer -- pretending to be kind --
He sought stability, to order things
That he could not afford, that could not be
Made orderly like quartz -- the throat that sings
Was sliced to let the music out, to free
The sweet, soft song from its confining space --
His love he lied he loved was not allowed
To live, because to live was his disgrace,
So greatness had to die -- he was too proud --
He sought the crowd -- the crowd denied his worth --
And so the only body that we found
Was far too tiny, never came to birth,
Was torn out of the absence, on the ground
Beneath a cherry tree weighed down in white --
Three bodies imply chaos, and his house
Was kept at ninety sharp degrees, a fright
Of order brought to danger by his spouse --
So he aborted everything he'd made --
And we are left impoverished -- the trails
He left are ice -- he lounges in the shade
While everyone around him rails and fails