I imagine robbing our grandfather’s 

grave even as his eulogy drones. I

pry gold incisors from whiskered leather’s

staved bone-cave. Shelled, affections modify.

Cry, mourners, for the robber would rather

shed his floor-length tears than take a shower,

change attire. Looted, maw said sorry;

said black suits. Condolence lives to flower

arrange, jaw, and muddy shovels, quarry

lid of excised turf. Only an hour

before next funeral; hail me a hearse,

Grief, it seems you’re limited hereafter:

Our grandfather’s death-breath is getting worse

beneath, in the capped breadth of his laughter.