a midday happening.

in the meadow of scorpion tails
and dandelion feathers,
a hole is dug deep
six feet,
underneath a wise willow.

buried here is a man
who had shot himself
last night.
the sound of his gun pierced
through the concrete walls of the homes in town.
nobody knew him,
nobody saw him.
but he had peers

though they could not speak,
they also cannot hear.

by midday, when
he shall be buried, the
sun will set for him,
and the dandelion
feathers shall fly for him.

his candles will be lit
and his soil shall be wet.

his soul shall pass through
the bridge of vines and thorns,

and elysium will be the moon.

his death is the fresh tear
in the fabric of the universe.