Ridiculous
and so like us
failed birds! Even Poe
couldn't crow
at your chute
gone kaput.
Your heart broke
as you struck
that orange hell
of a hotel
rooftop in June
at low noon.
Your likenesses, blown
east, tried to drown
in salt water.
At this altar
I imagine
their broad sequin-
studded suits, white
as limelight--
your casket sure
on each shoulder
bearing you, bearing
itself to a roosting
where every Joe
will finally know
where The King is
what The King knows.
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