A gang of unknowns leaves a coffin
with a rotating lid
amidst the shrubs, debris, and nothings.
I strain to divert my daughter’s eyes
by raising my finger at the sky.
She fails to fathom why
we call it blue when she sees
the dirty laundry spread between
the dust collared trees.
She wants to watch the people
entering and farewelling
as the coffin’s lid swings.
I show her how two fists eclipse births and deaths.
Picture Nick Victor