Droplets soak
in slow, the tombstones
darken from
gray to black, we chuckle
about the
weather and how October
is supposed to
be the sunniest month.
Puddles
collect around our feet,
the ground
freshly packed and settling,
sinking – she
is coughing, deep.
We came here
to fuck over the dead
and spill life
onto the ground, but her breath
escapes and
the woodstoves ravage her
throat and
lungs, not the cancer –
too easy to
blame the seasons
for everything that is
dying.
