[Poem] Dual Linguist

The dead hold court in the language of love

through one-stick songs. Pick the buds

and snap the branches; that’s how long 

you’re on stage singing. Yes they sing;

the dead caterwaul in opposing voices

that judge the living, all of them still curious

but the dead don’t point fingers any more.

They only ask the question that matters.

"Why, for the love of God, if you can be anything 

in this world, would you not just be kind?"