there’s a presence in the wind-blown sand
hovering in the rippling cool of winter
stacked stones of an old graveyard
unrecognizable but for the crosses

i remember sisters i met at a party
who pray over unmarked graves for
souls of the unknown & unloved

they believe it makes a difference
but the sand & wind say nothing
nor pay me any mind as i leave

i drive past a lettuce farm in the middle
of the desert, laughing at the concept,
knowing the roots of anything here
are not capable of reaching the dead