Groundskeeper Cemetery

Doves of clumped soil are really pigeons
      (let me wait for crumbs like they do).
This is not another life, no vaulted space,
      shoveling the unglued (about Volte-face).

This vaulted touch of nursing home smell
      (month-old maple syrup will reverse me).
The coffin lovers watch me with envy, valleys
      will prevail here (if I honor the twinkle in their eyes).

I rise and doubleback, like a cautious diver (dirt
      crumbles in my hair),
my feet feel the wind like winter trees.
      Pigeons crowd my feet (I cannot move).