I envy marigolds.
I envy painted
faces, horchata,
crinolines. That low,
slow slide from day
to night, to unreal. Who
knows what these
tombstone shadows
will reveal? We
are here to lose
ourselves amid the
frisson of fear and
of sex, in this
graveyard, where grief
looks like anger,
looks like love,
looks like the stomp
of a dancer's
foot.

Well, they
are here for that.
It's not my night
to lose. So I carry
my grief, folded
handkerchief neat,
and envy the
dancing skeletons
shaking it loose,
letting it go.