waikumete in tempera
seedheads brush against mossy headstones,
it puts her in mind of a painting. someone
has mowed rows between graves,
expecting descendants to pilgrimage.
nothing is ever all the way lost.
Shed Your Skin
Hello cemetery road, you with your
Long gravel tail that stretches endlessly
Towards some vague expression of peace,
There amongst the tallest trees.
You are rotting