The wind knows the tune to every murder ballad
	and plays them through branches thin 
as banjo strings. Each morning, a pile of pale stones
	forms a pyramid on the belly
of the town’s most recent grave. All day,
	children carry them away one at a time,
hide them in pockets, throw them at windows
	or runaway dogs, but the next morning
they rest on a new grave. Because ears pressed
	to bare earth too long turn the cries
of the long-buried into words, the stories
	no one wants to talk about or hear. 
Because the widow next door sleeps below
	an open window. She owns a record
that sings like voices lost in a cave
	and some nights she listens to it
over and over, cups of elderberry tea cooling
	in tired hands. Moths pressed
to the screens of still-lit windows could be
	the deadly flies of southern continents
if your hold relaxes, lets you forget
	your dreams of slow beasts rising
to stalk the fragile prey sleepers become.

Back to How It Is  ||  Next: The Muting Stones