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Graveyard Glosa

Waves that drove her forward,

wordless and symphonic,

emanating from tinny

laptop speakers on the kitchen stovetop.

The music was not of this century,

it was his music, reminding her again

it was time to go and see him.

Not him, exactly, but the place where he is.

Invisible waves that made her pick up car keys.

There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.

Willow branches for curtains

Avenues warped by hillside

Scent of flowers

and freshly cut grass

even in death,

someone else keeps his home for him.

He didn't even bother

to take down the Christmas decorations

after the maid left, fed up with him.

The tinsel of August falling was like a flame.

Here, the late evening, midsummer flame

Left her cold.

A band playing in the distance

Summer music festivals

The waves radiating again

Pushing her that last step

and then to her knees

The red and green left outside

the graveyard walls

That breathed on ground, more blue than red,

The sun sets and the voices

errupt.

From where?

She lays blue flowers on his grave

And a green tinsel on the headstone

And the voices cry only:

more red.

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