A Buried Man Poem by Leslie Philibert
A Buried Man
A half moon at its highest point.
His first winter at the graveyard; the grey sky falls into
bits of ice: he may envy the lights of the rings of houses.
Strangers now carry parts of his life; nothing stopped, no place
unfilled, affection diluted by absence as
the darkness waters the night.
Buses crawl round the empty streets.
From a distant bar the sound of glasses and laughter,
warmth.
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4/23/2024 10:50:52 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Yes, and life goes on.