He was lost to life, extreme rain on life

He was lost to life, extreme rain on life,
So that only death understood - he walked
Like a chicken, and threw his arms around
Like a chicken - the deep world soil
Of his being. locked up now. He had been
Such a good townsman.
He was buried with some of his famous
Wicker baskets, into a few of which
Were buried his Sunday bests: lost to life,
Lost, dead; rising in his ests, arms shaking,
White and red as the sickle moon hung from blood.
Anatol Cordua @ 2017