My good friend cut down a suicide,
hanging insider of a neighbor’s house.
I believe he was available and near
that day, so the perfect choice to witness
the post-end of that soul and body whose
neck must have been ringed red by a rope
or bruised blue by a belt and whose other
attributes I must imagine since I am only
reporting my buddy’s task and effort
so blocked by his body of work, which I
certainly laud, but do not envy even though
his senses must have taken in the original
with its necessary inscription—sight, feel,
and smell. I take only the seconds or even
thirds, for memory further buffers, miles
weaker and safe from the self-closing.