I'm going to spend my life digging graves
with my hands, as if it's all sand on the shore
where they sleep, on a hill buried in a blanket
as they dream and wait for a morning sun.
My shovel and a bucket here to make room as they lay
and lightly touch the ground, my palm on the earth
to hear their whispers sigh, and see their colors twist
on the blade of a leaf, upon leaf, upon leaf
among the rows
where my departed sleep, where my longing grows.