WE TAKE OUR TIME
The way I see it, all is death. The so-round
pattern of this cemetery arc, now ringed
by birds, carries forth its meaning in the
air. Fifteen stones within fifty-five feet,
another name upon each one. Something
maybe doesn't add up. This says 1812.
This says 1932. Every night some newer
sky descends, upon these living dead,
alone now with only forms of memory
and dread, together as one. Here it says
when floral displays are to be removed.
There it says no traffic past this point.
Well isn't that the living end?