Sunday, February 21, 2016


Up atop that hill where Jenkins lived, the
car wanders down in a storm of dust; we lived
alone here, distant and afar. The stories were
enough to still the heart, and that little graveyard
shuddered. Nothing had been touched there in
thirty years. My broken camera was a bakelite
black, of the sort no one uses anymore, nor
have they in seventy years. My ghost has
come back to carry the load, and I walk
the same hills I speak of. Everyone's
dead now, and I see where Jenkins
lies. The old graveyard, opened
now and so active, is filled with
all the names I knew.

1 comment:

Martin Kloess said...

thank you for sharing this little piece of you