The Apartment Of The Afterlifers Poem by Alexander Hawkins

There'll be no leaving it alone now. This flaying of fumigators
and braying of bellyachers is a call to armistice
for laissez faire lexicographers across the land.

Brown-black wings beat in tandem, coming to rest
at the apartment of the afterlifers. A penultimate song
cheeps away, as plural plexuses find peace

where peace could not previously be found.
The congregation at this deathly duplex
weep bluebell tears into patterned man-size tissues.

In a far flung future mourners will stir remembrances
of a morning where the sky was saturated a shade
of striking blue beyond the gauzy gamut of saddest eyes.