the creak of a casket, opening,
sounds awfully undramatic:
the coffin nails slide out brown
and loose on lubricated rust
when the wood bends wet with worms.
The box is as soggy as the body inside —
curing fetid in its pillow of shadow,
wasting
but the smell is what gets you:
pungent as the green snot and silt
cracked out of a sun-roasted oyster
shell, and the information you sought
out here in the soil is no longer worth
chasing
so you scrape dirt back into the hole,
not bothering to nail the limp box shut,
crushing the body beneath the wood
gentle as wet cardboard collapsing
in a trash bin, and you wonder how
one goes about building a better
casing
Explanation: I found that list of offbeat phrases in the “Strange Visitors” contest awhile back amusing, and began to think of them as titles for poems…I may do more based on the others, if/when time permits. (Hint: click on the “Weblog Exclusive” department to read all the others.)