By Pavel Chichikov
Let them be buried face up in their automobiles
Slanted like statues on Easter Island
Their seats at an angle
So the mystery may be theirs, false hopes
Within a sepulcher of rust and chrome
Of such resurrection
For them a dawn of iron only
Rust red and yellow
Above a painted corrugated desert
Unless, until a shepherd in sheep coat
Builds a melting fire
And opens rust-sealed doors
Grave goods, he says, grave goods
And a fine immortality to you
Governors
(Click here to read Pavel Chichikov's amazing Christian epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
