His Wind Chimes

                                  His Windchimes

The Dead’s choice of silence
                or song
Icy atmosphere can’t stop the sound,
         the humidity affects it none

Beer belly, Tattered t-shirt
         man waits for the breeze to come,
         for the whisper from the Gone

Draped in blood
         three years old

So…he’s brown?

No… he’s yellow
    orange
      Red.

“Do you need to be extinguished, sir?

A closer look reveals
         the blood is no cloak—
the blood is him

he points to the grave
         “And do what He did?
         I’ll have no connection”

“But sir, you are boiling!”
         
he chooses to remain covered
         in perpetual pain
         glorious grief

I can’t tell if the blood thickens
         or thins
         as he listens

How often do you leave without a note?

Everyday
Seven o’clock
As I walk away, the metal lightly connects