I know they ashed my flesh, milled my bones, sealed the
flour of my body
in a casket, and buried it out of sight on the north side of
to be half sunk flotsam, caught in a wave of tombstone
whose tip and sway through the calm between tempests,
cannot be measured by those who disposed me to
I know it was October. I was ashed but still here.
On a moonlit night I crawled out
feeling damp turf against toes, knees and palms that I no
I sensed without discomfort, a chill washing over skin no
Tongueless, I tasted the air, the turn of leaves about to
I know I was not alone. Others came out of the earth,
There was light, birdsong, voices.
One brushed dirt from clothes with fingers long since
whispered to dust.
Here stood the assured and the confused, leaning
on lichen-crusted markers of their mortal lives.
I know one had his old moon face buried into folded arms.
dressed in the way of their day, greeted like old pals
across the gap;
a spark between their eternal bed and the next.
Many, like me were naked. Perhaps we were the burned
alternative members of the same occasional club.
I know a young man in a white collarless shirt, reached out
that was once his own. His other pointed to stone-carved
Charlie, who fell asleep in nineteen nineteen, in his
He blinked, not at my nakedness. We didn’t care.
And I know in a far away voice he said, I believe this is