Third Base at the Graveyard


A fraction of a moon cast stony light
Along the rutted paths and slender graves.
A grassy patch and then a bench seemed right
But she went past to find a grave, rubbed dull
By centuries of wintering. A skull
With faded wings remained. No name. She braved

The ancient ghosts and leaned against its edge;
Her shoulders then her hips slid back. Her skirt
Rode up a pudgy thigh. Such postures bridged
My many silences. Her languid bones
Were acquiescing to the mossy tombstone’s
Years-in-the-making tilt. Our kisses hurt

At first from too much youthful eagerness,
But then she let my hand unhook her bra;
My other found her willing hem; her less
Than rigid knees unjoined. The boneyard swooned,
Until a distant snap of some raccoon’s
Astonished step declared to us the hour.

The moon had slipped behind the folded clouds.
The paths were darker as we left, but still the same
Forgotten tombs observed, in granite shrouds,
Our temporary passages. Years passed,
I can’t recall what happened next, just as,
For now, I can’t recall that girlfriend’s name.


After the Funeral