i carve you out
of already alive
and lavish landscapes; build silent,
lived horizons about you, still do.
i have asked
rich women and men;
do the dead mourn us?
as rain sloshed everything else,
you in my gut, again.
i try to think about outside,
sometimes when the traffic weakens
you feel you could have the run of the city
in memorium. when there were
no capitalisations, only silent confetti
leave no stone unturned,
haunt fair game
in nature's realm.