it was a ripcord fantasy
the fish eye sun glared down
the cemetery refused the hot Louisiana air
death cooled it, gave way to stones
and tiny temples
standing as inarguable testaments to the sky
most of the people had died in the 19th Century
and I knew nothing about them except their names
which the stone markers bore
everything was static
except for the faded pink flowers
shifting
uneasily
in the breeze
like the palms of sun
sent through the oak leaves
dancers of light
pirouetting around the weeping mother
and one-winged angel
fingers trailing slowly
passers-by marvel at the
strange mortal chambers
I crossed the graves carefully
and took pictures
that kept out human faces
my hotel has plastic flowers that
perch carefully in dry vases
and don't move
unless you touch them
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