Half of humans dig

Half of humans bury

Thousands of years: dig up

Last year: perish the thought

People have caught feelings

about how people minus souls

should be washed

spread out

scented

I have never had ashes.

I am the half that digs.

 

The half that bury

wear the sign of

death workers,

death workers have

death

cross the street

 

The half that dig are up for

smells,

for telling a rock from a tooth,

for finding a wall, or finding no wall

for pockmarking the landscape

we live with

changes

 

The half that bury do not change

They have a color to wear

They have hands that don’t

notice some hands are dead

 

They may be diseased

They live with formaldehyde

 

The diggers look forward,

fling what’s found over shoulder

keep going

 

The buriers are present

There are always more

There were always some