Alex Skovron - SPRINGVALE

In the city of the dead
with my mother. Necropolis
is many cities:

they float amid
the listening geometry & I
said things

not said
when they could have been said
& saw shapes.

My father
slowly closed his back to the
shut earth, & I

drifted ahead,
pausing to browse among

& sealed numbers
as they led me quietly
stone to stone

endward. I
among the rows imagined
absent mourners’

thoughts, hovering
low like abandoned clouds:
each belonging

silent to a silent
seldom-revisited mirror
in the ground.