The Only Evidence of Night


Faking Catholicism again
I kneel at the open casket, crossing my bones
and the great-greatgrandfather (50 grandchildren!)
unwrinkles himself,
still with bifocals and hearing aids
as if heaven needed hearing
or he needed to collect condolences.

When I drive back
the summer heat splits the windshield
for the lenses of the living,
and the tree frogs angle upward in the road,
barely making the sunset much less the curb,
their voices collecting under tires
as they silkscreen themselves to the street
for the morning crows to collect them
in their bellies
along with shadows and detritus
where everything that was the night converges.

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