The sound the ground makes
When everything ends with a scream
Rustles them like white leaves.
I’ve always wanted to crawl
Into a tomb and discover a new face.
Everywhere I go, headstones—
Splintered bones make great kindling
For those too-alone nights.
But for the vacant stretch of day,
The long tunnel that sweats and shines,
There isn’t much you can do about it,
Except continue walking over bricks,
March, traipse, tread and stomp,
And maybe one of those faces
Will someday wake up.
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