Scaffolds by Cate Doherty

A particular contemplative order
of “Simon says”, dependent on tolls to scaffold,
offered the horizon and a microscope
to the mazed and myopic gravedigger
creating celtic knots in the early morning fog
of graphite sketches with rubber soles
insulating against the vibrant agitation of a sharp shovel.
He propped his elbow. Resigned.
Corpses languish in dank holes with shredded roots
while agoraphobic squirmers worry, the roof has gone.
He wears a habit – burying corpses.
Simon says “Hang the dead from scaffolds”
He smiles wryly in acknowledgement