hawthorne's grave marker

the flowers about the
graves on the hill were sudden, like
just knowing it was emerson's birthday-
or it was spring-

and that was
why, bedecked, the mourners
would gather 'round

timely marble-

the streets
sounded the same- all
they asked for was more of
silence, and more of
and more of

entombing silence. the sort plants grow
best in-

oh yes, the flowers dropped, with a heft
of sob-

all sorts of flowers, that he would have appreciated no less, grown by
april. they still
carried the

scent of the pond-

oh but in the brambled corner-
people are set about clearing what
ought not to be cleared,
declaring all sorts of nonsense-

"yes it was a deep rooted psychological guilt-"

"they never liked one another"

it would help immensely,
the grieving academia of
stately literature professors, constructing
hives in front of

blind children-

to simply let guilt alone. it is
perfectly comfortable by himself-