For
Armand’s Grave (2)
No great
remorse—or want—
things move
toward seclusion
when you,
forgetting the verse,
remembering
us,
forget all
the distance,
you and what
you already are.
Without
dreams, the flood, sacred
or not,
covers the ground. All these
rustling
leaves, as if gods spoke.
Death is
death, no wishes, and
you, for one,
can’t rub your fingers,
or memorize
the change.
