Tiny Graves
        (Mona Lake, 1965)

I'm not going to find you. I threaded the idea
through another lost morning, by interstitial degrees. And it stinks, frankly.
The old boy sitting in the brothering sunshine
admitted you'd been long gone searching. There was an empty greenhouse
like bone architecture standing upside-down in each eye
of the drowned wasps, who were still stinging each other
out in the shallows. I could feel my hair brush my collar
as I collected the bodies. The chicory
seemed to nod in every direction. There was froth on the beach, smooth as whipped milk.
I imagine they dunked you till you couldn't breathe.
Oh the stones you must have loved, without thinking, swallowing water.

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Copyright © 2012 David Dodd Lee All rights reserved
from The Coldest Winter on Earth
Marick Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission