Plots come every few feet and trees waver

like anemones. It was colder inside
the damn house.

No grave freshly dug, the grass an even color.

High drama of monuments: one rests grandly
as one lived. As one hoped

one lived. The living creeps

through any crack. Any line.
It comes to stain my white sneaker.

Orange rope wrapped around a trunk.

Everything reaches up. Every
thing. Even flat plaques.

Burial is a womb, a start towards the sun

and its grief. A giving, a giving over.
Only these stones weigh down the growth.

Decay is a kind of growth.