On the Trees in the Night

I’d like a tomb for each poem, please,
Or not a tomb, a stone.
Yes, the bad ones. Yes, the long ones.
I’d like a stone for each.

Build me a carved snake of my days
That glides through its own stones
You can tilt up to find the words
That no one wants to say

But said and then fled for the shame—
Of what, no one can say.
All this in a grove of shade trees
Where gods fell to their knees.