The sun doesn’t appear
to know the angel of death
is lurking near, hissing quiet,
passing over (or not).
My lush daughter is
out walking the graveyard,
hosting a picnic with a friend
who is also alive. They will
roll their eyes and hope-
fully remain six feet apart,
six feet from all the bones and stories
under the grass. They might
smoke a little weed and
who would blame them. The world
smells like mud and used birthday candles.
After the sun disappears
the gothic church will
hold a flashlight under its chin
and mumble its ghost stories. Jesus
is locked up all safe inside, suspended
on his shiny cross, while
down by the river a thousand
little frogs begin to sing.