They are dead, these men, but linger on
and act alive as if their heart beats
still. Who will pronounce them gone?
When the dead are even coroners, where
will their slip be stamped? They are the
zombies whose outstretched arms bump
and grind against the gale, whose eyes
no more can blink. To think that days ago
we saw them in a show. Few know how
long their countenance will march across
the plain. What pain their visages contain
beneath their out-thrust breast.