(At the Cemetery) The mounds stir in the sunshine.
Bones clack a light staccato. Bare wrist bones,
Thigh bones,
Ankle bones,
Kick the soil loose. Moldy draperies flutter back and forth through the light.
The trees have put on a thin green pretense.
Even the soil pretends to fecundity.
Toothless jaws widen in a smile of real mirth.
Bones lightened of flesh
Flash in the sunshine. And afterward
The dead rest in the spring night,
Each in a silence molded to him,
Each in his own night,
A casket with a spangled lining.
The dead rest deep in their happiness.