A Buried Man - Poem by Leslie Philibert

A half moon at its highest point.

His first winter at the graveyard; the grey sky falls into
bits of ice: he may envy the lights of the rings of houses.
Strangers now carry parts of his life; nothing stopped, no place
unfilled, affection diluted by absence as
the darkness waters the night.

Buses crawl round the empty streets.
From a distant bar the sound of glasses and laughter,
warmth.