“A STILL-LIVING HEAD. . .”

A STILL-LIVING HEAD of hair.
Body no longer his. No order
shines within it. The mantel candle huddles
as she turns him, lantern of bone, dabs
with soapy cloth, each part of him, which is a god.
Tube and tape pull off, widen the stain on the sheet.
Thrust leg and leg into pants, his own.
Thrust arm and arm into sleeve. Button his shirt,
collar to cuff, then clip off a piece of hair.
He does not move. At dawn the birds come up,
and the smell of rain-eaten dirt.