My imaginary friends   who cannot spell
                  bring me to Cematary Lane
aisles of chain-link and purple-and-gold tombs
                  redwood-stained tables   and jungle gyms          
hip-wide paths tapered to veins of sand
 
                  Nobody     sits cross-legged
 on the picnic table     no one is tired of showing up
                  to catch a bird or swing on swings above
            a galvanized collective of marsh   
 
                        an island God created to disappear
 
                                    &
 
Me I keep coming back to bury the dead
                        the already buried dead   
because the dead float    and birds gather
 
the cardinals    the house sparrows  
                        to see if things have been well done
or undone    behind what’s engraved or  
 
the engraving itself
                        is the blind       the dead are the decoys
sighted through palmetto and moss
the lead duck is already in flight     I miss                    
                I am both shooter and the shot
 
                                    &
 
 after I get down to look (we’ve been dead stopped)
           the huddle says to me at the centerline
 
“bad accident” and a boy drags a
            butt with his boot as a low aside   
 
“waiting for the coroner…” 
 (two hours up the road)
 
            The marsh expands like a convention carpet…
 
Three cars up a bow-legged man
work pants hanging by a hip
 
leaves his truck running
and goes into the caisse
 
for his pole and casts himself
into the right now of the canal
 
Tout s’en va    tout passé
l’eau coule    et le coeur oublie
 
Everything goes away    all things pass
water flows    and the heart forgets