Graveyards

The graveyard is getting fixed
because it hasn’t been nice
for years.  The chain link fences
need mending; there will always be a need
for new fences.  They’ve poured cement
to improve the mood of the town,
and its eldest catacomb.  But I’ve 
never seen the men work,
never seen the huge dead orange 
tractor machines idle jerk, pour
their fuel line strength in, to
the tombs.  Yet every morning
it feels they’re indifferently watching me,
in different locations
along the fence plot separation
between middle class neighborhoods
and the ancient coffin dead that first
claimed discovery
of the overpopulated valley – this 
exponential desolation.

This morning I woke up
with different eyes.
I fell asleep crazy,
with flaming rings of pink circling
a bulging fast paced white 
Atlantic, pupils dilated somewhere in
the sea.  And today I see things
through the fresh blue depths
of Lake Tahoe, warm placid features of the southern pacific
coast.  Transformed from hypocrisies,
judgements and indignation, righteous
in a world where not a day goes 
by that we don’t alienate the 
asphyxiated with automated fences,
into the friendly kindness of 
an interstate trucker driving
roads, open between oceanic trenches.