All Fall Down

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Ring the trembling tocsin. Gad
around the neighborhood in shoals.
The moldering yore glows
rosy in this twilit moment as
a quorum of resurrectionists
pocket their plunder from boneyards
full of ribs and fibulae. In a void
of good intentions, they derange
posies into misbegotten mountains of
ashes, jetsam into jihads of
ashes, clinkers and clunkers, all
we hoped was forgotten,
all the effluvia we meant should
fall off the earth's edge and
down the maw of the cosmos.