The cities of the dead

The cities of the dead,

they say, or they think

they say, come alive

on certain days,

at certain times,

whisps and vapors

escaping from the tombs,

monuments, to celebrate

or wail, laugh or moan,

a false gaiety,

a disguised agony,

to be sure but

the only time life

can be felt, not where

desire lives, but where

desire is granted,

on certain days,

at certain times. That’s

what they say, anyway.

I wonder what

they would say

about the cemeteries.

Photograph: A cemetery in New Orleans.