‘Which plot are you looking for?’ he asks.
‘I know this place. Do you want my help?’
He draws a long spade out of his van.
It seems that we’re to understand
he works here, cleaning graves.
How we mark our dead marks us.
Here’s a pilot gazing at the stars,
a gambler with his chips on the table,
that young girl whose too vivid photo
recalls her last summer at the beach.
Are we lost? I’m hoping not
and try to say as much
before we go beyond the trees
