Poem for Friends
On someone else’s estate
running through it to avoid
the outdoor wedding there is a grave
in a little copse of trees
so panting we hide out there
How beautiful to lie down
not to be the dead ones there
whose eye sockets are filled with dirt
nothing is theirs anymore
you pass me a crumpled joint
swaying a little like a poem
while black birds wail in the air
and the commuter train wails
all we have to do is make tacos
tonight and be friends
