here and there...

I am a dead man walking

where the grasses stop and

every root fingers demands

into a much richer Earth

spoiled by ample open skies

I was along the edge

of a thin strip of forest

this line of mostly pines

towering above a needled floor

there is a cemetery

near a golf course

I believe it is Catholic

it is called saint something

I am sure

seeing, this is America

if I had money, I too

could be buried here

even if I were a Satanist

Heaven might sneak me in

when twilight’s repent begins

or so the good book says

the best stories I tell myself

are in rhythm with my footsteps

they often, come in waves surreptitiously crept

near where woods meet soil turned

this saint something with its rusted iron

has a section, in the back

where older worn stones lie

like tilted teeth with faded memory

these stones in nightfall’s encroach

smooth their shadows and change places

with what I regard, closest to my heart

after they see, I have become as dark as it is outside

EJR ©