anniversary poetry

which keeps
perhaps it is no matter that you died
as i lie roofed in, screened in
a very remarkable history this is
once this soft turf
sleep, gray brother of death
do not grieve that it is over
in mournful numbers
with the meek, brown eyes
little gate was reached at last
that year
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
passing through huddled and ugly walls