The gardener is mad, bowler askew, black brim casting shadows like knotty fingers plunging Earth. Worms divide, squirm into points: stars, underground light. Seeds
The grave is dug but not yet filled. We do not bury during Holy week so days pile up like unsaid Masses and we
When you spotted the deep pucker lines around the young woman’s lips, you whispered in my ear, Smoker, as if you would never die.