a sort of cemetery

ruins are not absent they are a normal part
of this grave landscape under those great trees
lie so many secrets more than a dog has fleas
the swallows that so blithely swoop and dart
have an old mission this is where they start
on a long journey far from winds that freeze
meanwhile we note the ones upon their knees
appellants to the court of an absent heart
to speak of ruins is not to speak of age not old
these stones this coin fell from the purse
of a woman who's still fresh in her grave
for all this heat that history's far too cold
we can't ignore the message nor the curse
the trees are rooted on the bones of slaves