Full of Grace

The only real rosary,

The only real beads vary

Versions of the certainty

It’s everyone’s lot, sooner

Or later, to cease, to die,

To vanish off forever.

Ashes to ashes and dust

To all that—it’s not so much

That we know this to be so,

But that we keep repeating

It to ourselves, always news,

Always a little amazed.

No, you’re not an exception,

Goes the chant on every bead.