Dead Man, Reamis Poem by S. A. Crawford

Dead Man, Reamis

There he is. So very still.
His bones, rattleless. They do not give
dead men smiles. I do not
know why. Solemn, it has rules,
I guess. Witnesses we're now, and
watching dead-hour's permanency.

There he is. Dead.
Dead Reamis
wouldn't have liked to be smiled,
being solemn. Mostly. Had
his own rules. Laid down, coroners,
they'd measured him, how
they would a slave—

"Don't move, " said they
and he, being choiceless, listened,
donning the diamond key of obey
as they suited him up in black,
back to front, black.
He was dead then. He's dead now.
Dead Reamis.
List, he showed us before, under,
under candlelight,
dreams, his dreams.

I yearn him to smell of yesterdays,
reek of them!
their long, drawn-in tight ropes of sweat,
their fielded flowers pulled from misty pastures. Being that they inflected
in him what they do all us,
I pray freshest rain... to sweep
back some breathing sweetness of those sweet, sweet yesterdays. Oh dear, did I ask,

Dearly,
Nothing smells
like nothing
when you're Dead Reamis,
dreaming inside wood's engraved pasture.