October Sunrise Poem by Francis Poole

October Sunrise

I am here to boil the water,
make the tea. And when
the hooded carpenters arrive next door
absorb the first hammer blows.

Just offstage the sun
tries on different masks:
phoenix, mandrill, blood-red skull.

An owl shrieks.
My empty coffin coated with dew
collects its first ash.

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