Clean rows
of colorless cemetery
stones, hard-edged
at the end of the day, stabbing
all their shadows
uniformly eastward—
already stark
nighttime
in that part of the world;
somewhere beyond
that—already tomorrow. Pinks again,
oranges, yellows; a light
breakfast
tasting just thoughtlessly
alright to someone.
First, grace: a life
never seems neat until it's
bound and finished.
Then, mercy:
the reassuring smell
of wet grass dissipates
once you round the bend
and realize—you don't have
time for this.
