Some days bring you to your knees

and some to the edge of town in a caravan:

cars with lights flashing, escorted by  
police on motorcycles. Some days bring 

you to another freshly excavated plot 
in the ground, entrance to the underworld 

bordered by grass so unnervingly green. 
How can the stone angels remain unmoved 

at each body riddled with holes, lowered 
in caskets as mourners toss flowers 

torn from their stalks? Somewhere in 
the dark, the bull sits, grinding his teeth

in his lair. And in a high-ceilinged room,
the mouth of the oven opens and flames 

engulf flesh and bone until only ashes 
are left, swept into an urn with bright 

specks of metal from teeth or fractured joints. 
This one stepped in front of another, or pushed 

with his back against a perforated door. This
one died tackling the gunman to the floor.