No vulture can circle widely enough,
no worm can open her gullet enough,
no fly can buzz to the target and feed swiftly enough,
no gravedigger has a shovel large enough

to dig the grave that needs digging
for the hulk that lies dying here.
No hearse large enough to carry it away
to a better cemetary,

no undertaker skilled enough to empty it
or make it up to seem plastic alive
(though it often looked that way in life,
seeing it now confirms that those days have passed.)

One hope to avoid the poisoning sure to come
from its breaking down and leaching out:
that we who are watching it die will at the proper moment
set the giant bonfire needed to cleanse the earth where it lies.