Here lies dust, reads a mausoleum.
Coffin for an ibis, reads a placard
in a college museum. A friend turns
forty-seven, a friend turns thirty-five.
We see wild turkeys in the graveyard,
a few too many to bother
to count, a word turns sideways
to clear a narrow passage.
Years turn, revolving doors,
I was eleven when my father
was forty-four. Now I am.
A throwaway joke that kills.
The day turns silvery-gold behind
its clouds, like crossing paths
with Satan. A thought thrills
the mind—life is evil.