Speak of these burial grounds,
Say that newly-salted curlicues,
Jutting periods and hyphens,
Form rows of peach, pale plum,
Winding vines which tremble up
Last season’s wasting stories.
Pull words through gravelled earth,
Ungrassed spaces where
Time pools, reflecting
What perspires beneath these
Thousand pinprick scrapes
Sewing their story into yours.
Who tends this wretched place?
Confess: you bottled this cityscape,
Skin-thin, head-high, heart-deep
With faded wounds and blistered
The soil. A single touch ignites
These sunken scars.