This Day - 4

And so having come to the familiar ledge On the face where sweetest strawberries grow Fold the hands of the dead on their breasts Push the corners of mouths to smiles Twist the rubbish tie ends to keep them so Brush hair from fixed open eyes Peer into this glass and form a graven image for posterity And having accepted the outside cause The tick, tick, tick Nudge them from the precepice with your candle paw The tigers will make better use of their coils And their transmigration could scarce take better shape You shall know this day by the murder in you hands