This is not the last place, 
Where the sun crosses like a corpse.
It is a vacancy. 

Gray skulls smile like stones, 
Their shaven heads nod in the wind 
And the writing on their faces 
Wears out like speech. 

When we visit, we bring luggage, 
Cases of smiles, bags of tears, 
Heavy with experience, we drink the sky
And unpack. 

We are tidy, although the grass muddles
The rain and a few birds 
Miss their way overhead. 
Nothing remains 
To show we ever came.

(First published in Envoi)