CONCLUSIONS
The dark settles, like snow, on the cemetery.
We walk through the calcium dusk, crunching
the bones of last year's leaves. An angel
has fallen, its words shattered, become ice.
A slumped grave, a slow revelation, the end
of things. Our words die young, their spirits
drift in this copse of stones: ghosts walking
through the avenue of green, undead, trees.
The stench of conifers, a celebration of the dead.
You are dispersed by dusk, descending
through the ranks of holy words. The soil,
layers of hearts and hands, pressed bone,
opens its arms, keeping us here. Stars
slumped on the trees, a fog of crystals, preserved.
