12.17.1986/age 16


      The trees have shed their embellishments &
      the graves sit in tiny muddy pools
      to which they have become accustomed.

      How lonely they seem,
      in a plot of so many
      and none of them different.
      They lay, in drunken stupor,
      cold & numb,
      cold in the fading green grass.
      Winter so intensifies these deaths,
      ages them even more.

      I think of him on days like this,
      knowing he lays in a cemetary lot
      like the one I have just passed. How cold he must be.
      That tiny wooded coffinn can surely
      be no protection in this ice.

      I wonder how he looks: the grave cave eaten
      by thr ground, rotting.
      Where he is, does he feel this?
      Does he eat? Does he sleep?
      Does he use all of what was left in his Egyptian bundle?
      There are no wilting flowers, no one leaves them.

      No anger lives there, no sadness, no
      remembrances; only indifference.

      I can barely shed a tear., ym well's run dry and
      the icy numbness of it all envelops and steals my sadness.

      I can force but a single drop, how that tortures me.
      How can I churn the tears like butter,
      trying to make cream into recovery?
      What a murderess I am!
      Hiding the suggestive death knell over our heads like such an easy exit
      and I sit here, ready to try yet another.





© 1986/2001