Divided and divided again, already old,
the root cellar held in the winds
names, memorials upon memorials like so many
afterbirths safeguarded in cellared mason jars
I could not believe in the names on the stones:
in memory of, beloved, dear, blessed, yes,
any more than I could believe in my own.
back to Waverly
A single broken barn rafter was the undoing
of a clan that wound its way to basement flats
close to meatpacking and bootleg runs
in Cicero alleys sheltered by the curve of the skyway
exit heading always remorselessly north.