Suddenly, a congregation

of disappointed dresses and cotton coffins.

Little boys were kicking God

under the table

to see who’d limp from the bending

of their invisible lives.

Little girls were starting fires

in their red purses.

The smell of smoke

caused a sensation

spoken of for years.

The corners of the room filled

with future music.

The floorboard whispers

and creaking ears

stuffed themselves

behind the sofas, armchairs,

and awkward chimneys,

along with each other’s

golden prayers, elongated flames.

Then someone knocked on the door

to the basement.

The timing of confetti

was never planned.

A voice became a world

falling in pieces

small enough to see.

The funeral was over.