PIPERS AT THE GATE OF DAWN

A coffin for the puppet master,

red slippers for his feet,
and a ring for every finger,
a ring for every toe,
and a music box to play a dirge.

And that’s the way the pennies go.

That’s the way the drum rolls go,
the footsteps go.

The black umbrellas open
on the way to rain. (And everything is slow.)

Everything is slowing, going where they go,
where eagles go to die, lovers go to die,
and liars lie to angels dancing on a pin.

And light reverts to time
dissolving at the speed of light, the speed of time
dissolving at the speed of angels.

The rain is coming. Cover the lawn chairs.
Cover your faces with the black umbrellas.

Open the music box. Release the dirge.
The coffin is coming,
drawn by horses of different colors
bearing pale riders skirling the bagpipes

to the insistent skirl of an amazing grace.

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