Micah Ballard



They should like
to be quiet, motionless
no more alive than
before. But now the

royal ghosts are calling
the empty theatres
their thieves, harlots their
garlands. Is it the toil

in spirit or sounds
of open tombs that after
time one becomes numb
& so the hour no longer

comes. Last night
her body was carried
to a small wagon
& a death mask --

cask of her face
& hands were made.
Gone are the guests
bones of those who

have not stood alone.
Buried early morning
& involuntary exile
may their remains

cease to be released
& her name left behind
as both signature
& sign.