Mercury rises first, a point of light
between the amber digits of dawn.
The jackal-headed god
having embalmed the night's consignment of the dead
sits, fashionably dressed and groomed,
aloof, watching the morning star dissolve
in sunlight streaming through the window
of the train newly-disgorged from underworld
to get Anubis to his day job.
The souls have taken a roundabout path,
slow, measured, unhurried, yet
they (like the gods) wait for no mere human.

The jackal-headed god
walks among people
makes no sign of recognition
or gesture of familiar greeting
toward where old recycled souls wait
to be decanted
once again
from their embalming fluid
people insist on calling "amniotic."