Craig Wisner

Untitled. (at the cemetery)

She burns frankincense

in a bowl

as a bluebird hops and flicks

among gravestones

-smoke mingling with sunlight

and the stunted dreams of the dead.

I sit under a cedar

and dream about ghosts

trapped in the shadows

of yesterday.

Glasses were raised

and the men stood to sing

about homeland and love

-the faint sounds of silverware and music

now muffled beneath roots and earth.

 

As if names carved in stone

and traced by the fingers

of a stranger

could ever account

for their laughter.

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