The giggle explodes and withers 

like a wet firework as I see one, 

this forgotten relic, this museum 

for time. Time to bury, to collect 

the right tools, to make a grave 

the right shape, the right size, 

to make it deep, make it permanent. 

Time to mourn and flick through 

memories like a yearbook, time to hold 

names, time to calculate age. The marvel 

of headstones, the sheer luxury of labels – 

mother, son, father, daughter. The luxury 

of certainty, of a marked spot, of dates, 

of they’re here, right here, and I know when. 

The luxury of mowed plaid, of pedicured grass, 

of clear sight lines, of boundaries.

Remembering was as simple

as the constancy of a plastic flower,

as the mercury of a grocery store balloon. 

Who remembers now? A stone angel 

looks down through the weeds

at the dark hills of lonely.