Men In Bright Robes


We bring our dead to the men in bright robes
who never knew them, but say fine things.
We bring the image of our dead
to be polished, glorified and buried
because they were unprepared.

It makes no difference.
For us life persists,
for them the screen is
black as infinite space.

The pain of impotence more than the pain of loss
brings us to the altar, the blood-stained glass,
the practiced voice echoing in the rafters,
the comforting repetition,
remembrance and celebration
that is done so well
by the men in bright robes.


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