THE BURYING GROUND



One evening early

in February,


at Vine Swamp,

North Carolina,


near the graves

I had driven there


to look for,

I put my eye


to a bullet hole

in a stop sign.


--And there was the moon,

in a ring of space


in a ring of rust.

It was like touching


my eyebrow

to an eyebrow,


or trying to,

long ago...


like tiptoeing up

to a keyhole,


and kneeling down

and being seen


all the way

to the back of the skull,


feeling my name

carved there.