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I am walking around the graveyard
songs of enamor lubricate
a dirt floor, with concrete spills
blanketing its hymns, some of which
will fall through the cracks like
droplets filled with nectar and embers
and some will rise through the cracks like
roots and pheromones          tenants of the earth

 

   I am walking through the graveyard
   reading tombstones, (reading numbers is
   not quite the same as reading words)

            1928,
                                              1969,
                1888,
                                          2004,

   how much smaller does a number become every
   year, sitting on unsigned
   invitations and valedictions, an
   unsuccessful post office? a reluctant train station?
   arrivals    departures    exchange rate    flags

 

I am walking beneath the graveyard
a faceless shepherd with a basket woven
from families of skinned doves
is tossing uncounted limbs but they
don't understand gravity, they
spiral in spurning reds or violets
towards me or pulse or however they unwind
they'll find their way, eventually
upwards
outwards 

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