A boneyard of saints (with or without
grottoes), dogs and lions (couchant
or a-prowl), dolphins with spouts,
fisherboys, hitching-post jockeys (whitened

out of antebellum Negritude), pagodas--
memorials to what invisibly lies dead
and buried in ourselves, while all faces,
muzzles, profiles, attributes, turn eastward

to the morning of our shade. The lanterns
sell in parts or whole or units, stack
to temple-heights of landscapes of contemplation--
ponds and goldfish--narcissistic

vanities of self-reflection, surface
textures, grades of equilibrium, styles
and quirks of choice. Central flaws,
designed and perfect, allow for cables

sinking to egocentric lighting of revelation
and expulsion from primeval innocence
of path, the supposed blinding illumination
against impending dark. I step past signs

warning of guard-dogs, carefully around
their nocturnal droppings, and select
a bellflower roof, a four-footed mound
of base, a skeletal midriff. I seek

the faith that in this eclectic graveyard
there is a meaning beyond what I walk,
select, and buy, that may remind me to a halt
in my own garden, of eternal greenery beyond the chalk.