Catholic cemeteries in New York always get me down. So many rows of faceless stone and not a saint to be found. I keep listening for the dead, condemned to make no sound, like the voices of children driven into the ground.
I don’t understand this thing you’re calling love. It’s a hand around the throat, another way to kill a dove. Don’t sing to me of grace; don’t mention His good name. This vein of ugly runs deeper than blame.
When that cold morning fog rolls down the marbled hill, take my deaf bones and do with them what you will.