by Gary Percesepe

The moon poured more

light into the sky

yet we kept on talking


We were young enough

to believe that

each experience somehow


improved us, that all the

copperheads in the garden

were there for a purpose


not yet old enough

to feature how the

dead grow more dead


each night, that under

the elms and leaves,

as the poet said


the graves grow deeper.

We cannot remember fast enough

to save ourselves.