A thousand grassy fields, vacant
as the stares of weary parents--
eyes dry as foxtail, and then a man
with blood under his nails,
a confession beneath his tongue.
He draws crude maps to buried bones.
They rest below a tough third base,
forever shy of home.
Darkness feeds the dandelion roots, seeds
the cracks in sidewalks and hope. Know
that a stranger can disappear into the heart
of any city, which daylight fade,
thunderclouds roll in from the west
while thinking casually of shallow graves
in the way that parents, some terrible morning,
first notice beds too pristine for sleep.