Some memory, underground pulse
has drawn me
to these oaks and locusts
carved now with the initials of lovers,
small crosses and dates.
Those letters are windows of pitch,
a language of years
I see inside.
In this land
dead bark
is undermined by worms
as my own flesh
breaks down,
small designs working their way beneath it,
those arrangements of cells
which brought me walking.
A thousand figures
unfold their heritage of silence,
strange alphabet
sending out this message
into a new life
into words.
And listen.
The crows are still
talking about it.
Red rocks underground
are breaking open.