I'm not here to look at dead people—

I've got herpes. And a closet gorilla

suit that's not exactly a sanitary napkin

or a strawberry shortcake to Heaven.

Graffiti twirls the tombstones alive.

What's with the need to note

things down in order to remember

the Hand of God? The priest is drinking

his stomach on an empty wine glass.

He is the victim of his own body

as he lifts an arm to hold

the umbrella higher than the eye

of the people standing next to him.

I've killed six flowering plants—

as far as I know. Does he know better?

I camouflage my own dying:

I talk about the weather in public;

I steal the pens that come

with fancy funeral guestbooks.

It's summer. The dead are rewriting

the whole face of the cemetery.