graveyard for trees

i bury my hands. shovel in my teeth.
the graveyard is full of televisions
playing reruns of the superbowl. 
i still don't know how to play football
& i'm uninterested in learning.
trees die in rainfalls. one limb
at a time. they stand & watch a hand 
fall to the earth & become the home
of mushrooms & little bugs.
i too know what it's like to mourn
the body piecemeal. i said
no freaking way & that's why 
i'm doing the taking apart myself.
a little headstone for each hand. 
mourners come. other hands of all 
my friends & former lovers. the trees
are not like this. they do not mourn
their dead. instead, they wait for
them to become part of the soil.
years from today they know
the loved one will glimmer behind their eyes.
my hands were mischiveous agents.
always picking another apple & 
shoving it into my mouth. i wanted to
let them run rampant. let them
strangle as many dandelions as they pleased.
i could not see them wither. i am not a tree.
the trees say, "this is a graveyard."
we are standing in a parking lot
& then in a mall bathroom & then 
in an arcade. i think a graveyard is
an onion. one petal for every species.
goodbye previous galaxy. goodbye 
old rotting moons. ours is fresh 
& shiny. i often push rolled up notes
into the ground for my hands to read,
"i'm sorry" i say. they don't respond.
the trees lay down sideways beneath 
every broken strip mall cathedral.
i leave flowers for them. the tree ghosts
spit them out & say, "we are not dead."
i say, "i know. i want to join you."  

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