by Margaret Young
Another June, embarrassing roses
brandish their sexual petals. The swan–
necked excavator digs up the shady street
while men in vests and helmets stand
like ruminants among their orange cones.
Elm seeds, brown paper nipples, drift
into piles. It’s not enough to live next
to the graveyard: you must take them by
the soft dry hand sometimes, the ones standing
among gray rectangles, spelling out names,
a glance around to try to guess who’s next.