And the wind is as cold as dirt under a slab.
There is only a faint misting in the trees,
An angel's gun-shot eye black with mold
While the other stares down like a bald moon.
Does she blink? Get real, someone says, no one stays,
It is only the imagination that creeps
Through clouds of ragged sobs, darts of dark ivy
That close as do the bones
in a hand? To stand here
Is to stand in a sewer of discontent,
as roils of sky race over headstones
wafer thin. A marble child,
delicate as a fetus, lies down with a lamb.
So where is the little carved heart?
Under the ground and making a fist?
No matter now. Touch the stone
Where death once had her forehead pressed.
Nothing, nothing here human, just murmuring,
A few interruptions of weeds and rocks.
This is not some garden for the overslept.
It is not the soul that is being kept.
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