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.
