The Shocks We Put Our Pitchforks Into

The shocks said that winter

Was coming. Each stood there,

Said, “I’ve given myself away.

Take me. It’s over.”

And we did. With the shiny tips

Of our forks, their handles so

Healthy and elegant,

We slipped each bundle free,

Gave it to the load.

Each bundle was like

A soul, tucked back

Into the cloud of souls.

That’s how it will be

After death — such an abundance

Of souls, all together —

None tired, in the heavy wagon.