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