At the National Cemetery
ending with a line adapted from Neruda
A doe is still
among the death-cradles.
In dappling shyness,
her fawn waits in the brush.
If a little rain steeples its fingers,
if dusk approaches
and flanks us from the east,
maybe the long leaf pines
will indulge their green sorrows.
All the rows are white
and orderly as the alphabet.
The service road,
blurry with dust.
Oh, my parents.
Oh, two-faced death.
Wind from the tombs carries off,
scatters your sleeping roots.