Avenues graveyard on a Sunday -
we finger cigarettes on Louis Bing
motorcycle bandits mocked by birds
underneath he's sleeping
memorizing syllables

white limestone
blue hatched skies
green stricken wings
and black enamel flies
my shirt becomes a sail
and carries me past the valley

below lies perfect, gray regret
in military lines they way he died
falling through ashes
don't take it so gravely -
children dance on plots