How cold it is,
that white sun smoking overhead,
powerful contours of snow
braiding, dividing
around the stones,
sheeting and rumpling as if
something were struggling
to break through.
In this place
memory’s no salvation,
there’s no cause to wake
or trouble us, in this place love
has dwindled to fatigue
like winter gardens
discarded to this
whirl of dirt,
to these heaviest
of days, to this most durable
of our inclinations.
— John Engels
“Adam in the Graveyard” is from Engels’ recently published volume, House and Garden, University of Notre Dame Press.
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