Buttons

Our arms fall apart at the church of blue buttons
Father comes to tea
We haul his body from the closet
Dust off the shirt and tie
Our mind is sharp
A tangle of scars
Small bars and snarling hearths
We choose our years carefully
We have to be sure
Measure the cloth and come to a conclusion
We saw the end in the dusty trunk
But now we rise
Slowly
Carefully
Our arms fall apart at the church of blue buttons.