Who Will Check the State of the Coffins?
The night watchman comes away observing trees
like black construction paper.
image sticks to the back of the mirror.
Elms of the cemetery are from the past century: rain-wet stenciled on
trees which won’t be apparent till dawn:
a glass one cannot walk thru
without splintering it:
Packing more heart in three hours than anybody can
certain to touch the soul.
In another incarnation he was a typesetter:
Irregularities of metal typesetting
& letterpress printing, however,
got to him:
the sharp contrast between thick & thin strokes.
To retain openness of heart,
he became night watchman:
laid under one great black velvet blanket lawn.
Some nights, as he checks the tombs,
a pioneer type foundry
under the cold hard stars rolls on.