I like a nine o’clock grave; I bring you bagels slathered in grass-green
Chives. Not an eleven o’clock grave,
The sun gets too hot, the weeds too sticky, my hair sweaty against my head,
The dirt too familiar.
At eleven thirty, I’m too cranky. I’ll come back at two.
At two I come, and your bagels have been eaten by dusk-dark rabbits.
I like a four forty five grave. The dirt turns to swamp; the world is weeping for you and for me.
At the seven o’clock grave, I start to weep. As Night’s eyes begin to twinkle,
The rabble of rabbits lulls.
I’m alone in the yard.
It’s eight o’clock and I haven’t moved. My mind has been knocked asleep, the breath pulled out of me.
At eleven o’clock, I’m swallowed by mud, no longer familiar.
