they buried the unclaimed nameless in a field north of the city & the city grew around it now a fence amidst commerce, a square, no monuments mark those below the grasses. it could be a park if they ever thought to unlock the gate
the unclaimed came from the hospital back when the hospital was called an asylum what else changed with our language?
what’s come from all our progress. all our progression from animal into angel into engine? what of all our invasive photographs of the brain? there are potters fields everywhere & the bodies stay until flood or famine or gentrification
maybe in death all our madness leaches with our plastics into the soil; maybe the worms do the worm in the earth each grave is the ground sobbing open: someone might put in a poem but for their burials surely the ritual was stripped of its pomp & pageantry no widow left to mourn & if there was she did it long ago
perhaps a few words in latin then the earth shoveled back into the earth today i watched a man cut the lawn even as a bed sheet from atop his high powered machine all blades of grass are headstones they grow despite us.