At Your Hanging

The hangman weeps. He kneels and begs

forgiveness of your shoes. OK, 

OK, you nod, and your headbag's

spice, its tropical jute bouquet,

grows subtler, like some wine you are

adrift in. This the hangman frantically

understands, and everyone here,

in sunlight and authentically

ash-blackened sackcloth, deeply feels.

Now we lay us down to dream

those cold colorful subsoils

your face must crumble and become,

and now the hangman's drying his eyes

on the soft rag of the noose.