You will hide, try

point to your forehead

almost remember where the mourners

put the dirt back

so even you won't know the difference

—you need more dirt: a sky

with one cloud then another

filled with stones and gasping for air

so you will think it's the grasses

that have forgotten where to go

have nothing left to do

the way funerals still come by

as if rain no longer mattered at night

and the kiss someone once gave you

—you won't eat anymore: the breeze

will step back, go slack, cover you

though there's not enough room

with distances and longing.