The Damaged Horizons of Exquisite Poems

The well-wrought urn of ashes
Is just kept for the ashes.
They’re the lost life that mattered.

No one really needs the vase,
When ash can wait in boxes,
Be planted, get tossed in lakes.

If ashes are what matters,
And ashes fly everywhere,
While machines can churn out jars

Of any material
To suit any taste, who cares
For the pool players seven?

Who cares that this be the verse?
Store those ashes in the fridge.
Melt the snow man in the hearse.