They force you to look up,

so strong-armed. They bring

their lunches and canopies

to the cemetery, having

set up camp over one-hundred-

fifty years ago. So many eyes,

softened, as homes for birds,

bringing cool comfort to the aged.

I fully believe violence is storm-

related, but I cannot agree with those

who see you only as utility. I imagine

I was so confused that I needed to take

a photo: so here it is, three varnished slabs

over a rooted base; this one a flattened

surface (like putting face on an enemy)

attached to spinster’s wire for setting plants.

I remember sticking

out my tongue as the only

way to receive the sacrament,

but as I’ve aged, I know

simple uses are authentic,

heaven-sent. So I lie

under you; you sprawl

over me. Dropping seeds, milky.