how strange, the cloudy kindness
of the graveyard and its limbs,


and how different, earth
and any room must be,


darkened with the lust
and cheerless shapes


of people, who believe
everything they think.


so we sleep in hope, for a place
of hours flushed with health,


when new seasons mean
remembering, those seasons


when you no longer
missed home all the time


and wondered
where it went.