Trees droop among immovables.

The rain thinks twice about landing,

stopped at the leaves.

Some procure plots with a woodrot cross,

some a whole hillside, shaky with underground

chambers, sculpture behind bars.

Beyond the wall, the traffic brakes and hastens.

Leave your message after the beep.

Not the past, but the present makes me sad.

The eviction notice on the headstone.

Now what?

Every night my heart comes home kicking my ass.

What are the oceans up to?

So far apart, do they have the chance to talk?