Sanitarium Poem by James McLain

Some people today stay and play with the ghosts of their children
sliding down the body chute, shot like death screaming
as if shot into life out of the tunnel.
Unbeknownst knowing the history of their sick relatives
transported and the dead bottom lips twisted in as if speaking.
Mumified remains, bonfire piles lit up it invokes nocturnal emissions.
If you can see look closly at all the leathery dead
as they came in from.
Underground the damp dark lime walled tunnel.
The original sanitorium, death smells as if fish really could.
Eastern deaths blown in from the west by so many small feet
and stretched out beneath the Hill underground sitting morbidly
facing life grimly or were cremated to warm the old wooden Houses.