The Living, The Dying

All over America 
the dying do what it is they do.
By this I don't mean only
the ones who go into a sealed 
hospital chamber where their lungs
might be hooked up to machines; 
nor the ones who, after uncountable
days, are quietly packed in trucks
before they're tipped into soft
beds of earth. Outside 
in what passes as a world,
the sky is blue as a field
of cornflowers. Sometimes, 
in the evenings, it rains
and we forget how it is
to be the living 
that go on 
with their living.