On the drive to work, a green dark lingers over the old Lutheran graveyard. In the language of the managers, no room for the knowing weight of blood. I will try to convince my superior that the weight there, in the cemetery, is the shoulder of the country, that it is pale, if veined by age, and soiled. Back now, with the sun the other side of the foaming crest of Heaven, I see the same shadow in the afternoon as haunted morning. Ten thousand orders carried into nothing behind. Dust and water stormed to slurry, then dust and water it becomes again, after the storm sweats its fever of purpose back into the shining hills around the city. Black maples by the graveyard manage brightness the way the bosses manage what is real— shadow hoarded in the mouth, triaged limbs; to seem both autumnal and young, without rain.
"Back now, with the sun the other side
of the foaming crest of Heaven, I see the same
shadow in the afternoon as haunted morning.
Ten thousand orders carried into nothing behind."
There are a few places like that in my area. It feels as if some places only properly exist during specific times of day.
Wonderful writing, Sam.