The Grave Robber’s Monologue

they

are the

best company

and that is why his hand is stuffed in
an ancient pocket where the buttons
have clinked against
the marble floor

long away since
he was a child

and long since
and long since brazen things have fallen away as well.
it quivered about the
last autumn trees to find the
living asleep in comparative
silence towards
the crash among leaf and
field by tiny mice
and

wide awake night birds

but comfort stands at
the woolen-eyed sentinels
by the heavy gates. and the
November out of doors
is more along the lines
of wood smoke

along the ice laden boughs of
elastic birch trees the ash clings
because
all atmosphere was once the carbon
dioxide of inhaling plants
the impurity traced of oxygen and
that the couplets arranged less and less

while
still worthwhile: the familiar cufflinks. a cameo
brooch. an emerald pin.

they sift underneath their opened eyes

and

like marbles fallen they
shatter china against the temple
floors.

it is nice lifting a hand to be among

those who are not

waiting any longer