Sifting Beans

published in Sweet Tree Review

I look into a bowl of white noise.
Ezekiel on a field of bones.
I dip in my hands.  I drink death
from a skull's empty sockets.
The dust of it covers my hands.
I think now of that evening.
You shelled beans into a silver bowl.
You looked up at me.  Your eyes
glistened with laughing or memory.
I have never known which.
I know I will bury you.
My hands will touch your eyelids.
I will stand above you
as I sift dirt on your grave.
I will wrap your name in mine.