Deep Lane [June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies] - Mark Doty
June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies,
we’re walking in the cemetery down the road,
and I look up from my distracted study of whatever,
an unfocused gaze somewhere a few feet in front of my shoes,
and see that Ned has run on ahead
with the champagne plume of his tail held especially high,
his head erect,
which is often a sign that he has something he believes he is not
allowed to have,
and in the gathering twilight (what is it that is gathered,
who is doing the harvesting?) I can make out that the long
horizontal
between his lovely jaws is one of the four stakes planted on the
slope
to indicate where the backhoe will dig a new grave.
Of course my impulse is to run after him, to replace the marker,
out of respect for the rule that we won’t desecrate the tombs,
or at least for those who knew the woman
whose name inks a placard in the rectangle claimed by the four
poles
of vanishing—three poles now—and how it’s within their
recollection,
their gathering, she’ll live. Evening of memory. Sparklamps in
the grass.
I stand and watch him go in his wild figure eights,
I say, You run, darling, you tear up that hill.
