Care for the Dead
To sense the life
that used to live here,
I pick up a clump
of dirt from the field
and let it crumble
between my fingers
and watch it fall
and mix back
with the earth.
Something here
has changed. I
changed and changed it.
I have desecrated
something sacred.
I ask nature
to forgive the bulldozer
of my hands, crumpling
the graves of men
I never knew,
and never cared about,
until now.
Now I come. Now the poet
in me
pretends to care.
I try. I do. But I
cannot wait for a better poet
to caress my dust
and write of his love
for the dirt
between his fingertips
and buried under his nails.
