Until grass tips curl
Like the fingers of dead men.
Six times a cloud has brushed
The sun from my body, and each time
I have raised my eyes and prayed it away,
Because now more than ever I need light.
Six times I have told myself
That bruises heal themselves,
That left alone
The blue will fade with time.
Six times I have witnessed fence, tower,
Bloodhound pen, the verdant hill
Where rows of immutable tombstones
Remind me that before this was a prison
It was a madhouse. Six times I have wondered
If bones know the peace that flesh seeks,
Wondered if I could not press my ear to the ground
And hear a rustling. . .
Six times I have circled the yard.
Six times the earth has whispered my name.