February 13, 2013

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


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