Pagan Litany by Paula Closson Buck
The sea swells over the breakwater,
careers in heavy showers
across the harbor road
where salt pines
lie broken by the wind.
It's nearly dark by four p.m.
Through open doors, small markets
like grave sites surrender
a naïve collection of supplies:
ouzo, chocolate bars,
cigarettes and toys.
If we have souls, if we dare to think so
on a day like this, we play them
close to our bodies.
What gods there might be
won't hear us above the wind
or the tarp of the sky
lashed down. Days like this,
we demonstrate the simple
economies of our need
and bury our dead
with change in their pockets.
2 comments:
i don't understand the end?
"we demonstrate the simple
economies of our need
and bury our dead
with change in their pockets."
that part? i don't know...if we bury the dead with change, we don't need the money. seems like there's more to it though, like the fact that we also bury the dead.
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