Gravedigger
The newspaper calls it
a crisis
billboards stretched with
grasshopper husks
advertisements
for helplines
on the public transit
Burying yourself
in the warmth
of cicada song
rippling down shoulder blades
in sensual
waves
cotton candy warmth
a familiar tightness in throat
that you recall
from trying
to sing fear
in dreams
but the gravedigger
isn't ready
to say goodbye
waiting in the gas station
parking lot
with knuckles white
around the shovels handle
on the night
you kissed the moon silver
& the gravedigger kissed you
with narcan on his lips