There’s a lone stone cross
in a square lot of grass
with streaks of wire running
under all its dirt.
Everyone pretends not to see it
when they cast their shadows
against the mossy intersecting lines.
A praying mantis chews butterfly
wings so that they crumple
like a can crushed in a hand.
There used to be a name
on the face of it so everyone
could know and put the ghosts to rest.
The truth is like a buried chest
out past the humble sandbars where
the chairs are set in circles
and the torches burn away
the distant view.
Always one of the few
with any sense of atmosphere
it’s fitting that you’re buried here
where everyone can see you,
and yet no one will remember
who you were.
Marker
Teleporting Typewriter 