Joggers in Cemeteries

Sometimes, on the final memorial
The stone so white it glows at night
We find a pair of praying hands
Closed like lobster claws
Against the world, a game of peekaboo
A game of fox and grapes
You want to put your real hands
Over the rainsmooth ones

You rarely see chiseled hands doing anything
Other than this       they have made peace
Or a pretend peace     for the lightning above
Lightning angrier even than ours

Partial we are to the hands threading a needle
Or trying on a golden ring as the last form
Doves might be alighting on them
In an ancient form of television program
Or they may be getting the turn-down service from heaven
It may be two doves descending carrying a green wreath of air
If it is a tiny creation        it may be a lamb
Then there are not even hands
No faces         not even knowing Janus
Just the representation of a beast we often eat

Emblem of innocence      a thing hands cannot even hold


I am r.s.v.p.’ing stone
Here is a response
to neon, to air,
feel free to listen in
as I interview grease,
sulfur, slate, sponges,
talcum, clouds, glass,
beer, linen, pussy willows.
These dumb things
push and shove
to be alive,
in conversation
with bone,
here, weird,
inhabit eyes,
talking water.