In the cemetery

The dead are not here,
sunbathing in their granite suits.

Or have become these birds:
the serin serenades itself,

the redstart stars
in its own black night of feathers,

stops on top of a sepulchre
to let its hymn cross

into gossip—this
crisp ripping of

these, our
deeds.

page 67

Robins

Robins hover
during the meeting
over the reddening vine.

I can no longer hear you
but sometimes I can see
what you were saying.