The Blister
George Witte
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Late October I ministered your graveInstead of calling home, the phone
An underwater cave
That droned your birthday monotone.
With topsoil, lily bulbs, and garden spade
I thought to cultivate your stone—
No matter, being dead
You couldn’t notice, would despise
This do-good task, guiltily belated,
An unbeliever’s compromise
To till from arid ash
And fragment bone a paradise.
