Sometimes I wish that maybe I could
Stumble upon burial grounds that have not felt theheel of a broken-in boot
Sink into its soft ground, disturbing the dirt just abit,
And that I would pull crayons and wax paper
From my pockets, to makegrave rubbings
With these tools that tie me to my childhood
But burn myhand in a sepulchral fire that only fizzles out
After my instruments return tomy pockets,
My hands are washed only in water from the Ganges,
And mycreations are transferred to the walls of my home,
A decorative address bookposted on the partitions which
Separate me from what once was here,
Remindme of the shallow graves I dug and filled with my possessions
andeverything else from the lost and found pile,
And the makeshift headstonesthat were knocked to the ground
By vandals and fallen trees.
As six feetturn into two which are walking away
From blurred epitaphs and mumbledeulogies
I return to rusted playgrounds with
Spades as a fence
Andcreaky swings that I weld my hands to
So that I will never again misplace whatI truly need
And I'll remember what it feels like to have mulch caught in theinsoles of my shoes.
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