BY DR. AGONSON
Pay no concern for how he died,
nor where his body’s laid.
Suffice it just to say he’s died
and in a shallow grave.
Yet now I must invent the scene,
and set the stage aright,
for were it all to be unseen,
no tale’d be told tonight.
The careless sands under the sun:
the wind’s—so oft to dance—
a spirit worshiping the sun
with flesh the earth so grants.
Half buried in this hourglass
a wretched corpse peaks out.
He had one eye, another o’glass
which still, it seem’s, a scout.
You’ll note it glinting like a star
in the horizon there;
peering from death, a little star,
looks on us unaware.
 Forgive some purposed ambiguity.