with Gail at Père-Lachaise Cemetery, Paris, 1998
We look over limp and faded roses,
daisies, coins, and ink-smeared notes
to the dead inside this place
of no tranquility.
We talk about idolatry
and do not hear the howls
that must be trying to break
through perfect cobbled paths.
Is he aching in his joints from lying so long
so straight so covered with the stale earth of his grave?
He searches for relief from voices.
We don’t whisper, and we laugh
at any holy spirit in the trees.
We don’t know Nicole will die
in six years’ time. We don’t know
where you will lay your daughter down.
