—SORRY IF I CAUSED YOU UNNECESSARY TROUBLE

Not Far From Potter’s Field

We’re drowning

  in a gray maw while

another bitter widow

  dangles from the ledge,

her jaundiced legs trying

  to pierce whatever

they scratch,

  hungry for the company

of her zombie kin who

  haunt the hollow skulls,

forging warrants

  and obituaries.

Look around: The air has

  turned to ash, the sky is  

a sore throat that can

  no longer swallow,

and each cloud carries

  the weight of

an unclaimed corpse.

  When they roll away

the stone, it’s only

  hollow black inside,

dust shimmying free,

       no you,

         no me.