At night we hear them
laughing their bony laughs,
swinging above us
in the branches, whooping.
They’re so alive,
the dead, their delight
infectious, bright
lemons of joy
shimmering with darkness.
Their big hats—oh the finery!—
in the trees in silk and feathers,
so inappropriate
when they were here.
How people would talk!
But listen, they whisper to us:
Do it now, do it
while you can, do the crazy thing.
Wear the hats, eat
the lemons, climb to the top
of the tall tall tree
in all your foolish glory.
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