There was a great cloud of stones, pulpits the sky,
the day they lowered you down into your grave of white dreams.
Your red coffin running on waxed rollers. Not even a squeak.
Grandmothers unborn lined up over you in blue painted chairs,
humming like telephone wires in a Wyoming thunderstorm.
I reached out and put my hand on the heart of the drummer
who said he spoke with you in thousand mile hallways.
His hand could not reach my heart though.
The Russian punk band Pussy Riot sang over you–
throttling their usual chambered shout down into a throbbing descant.
Your mother finally climbed on top of your coffin
and danced like a woman possessed as the whole
second line kicked in, swinging all the saints
into a snaking, fire spitting chain of bent soul goodbyes.
Afterwards it was all high stepping back to town.
Tell me someday how you saw it.