At the Cemetary

If it’s that we’re all dying

from the day we’re born, faster

or slower or unknown, are we

all then varying degrees of buried?

Dirt pushing to swallow us

year by layer by layer by year,

some laying back to let it pile

out of faith or sleep or fear,

others aching to know the whole

weight of our selves on our feet,

feel the dirt pulled off by gravity,

however briefly, to be any less

distant from the sky, the planets

as they spin and burn, the dark

universe surging.

Lizabeth’s poetry is forthcoming in RattlePopshot Magazine, and Lumina.

August 11, 2017