*
Between these graves and every Sunday
you bring the wide, floppy hat
--on each visit, the red scarf
before the light she asks for
cools, hardens into the back and forth
that cradles each small stone
--she’s not interested in stone
and tells you so though it’s not Sunday
--it’s not any day, just winter
stone bars and you wait outside
for the gate to show up
or how long she’s been in.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3