Lowellville Cemetery: Twilight


                      Gone silence down lowered sun
                      O at this each
                      Of everything here
                      These poor knotted hands lost

                      Under the darkened foam

                      Of grass. Stone
                      Unto stone and flesh unto flesh
                      Scattered as cold petals
                      On the floor of winter’s

                      Own waking. All should

                      Be dark.
                      And dark on dark forever
                      Now.
                      Sundown and world, too.
                      As it is for them,
                      Lying there.
                      Why is it not?

                      Why is it not






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