visiting hours are over

my name is screaming like
the sound of your heart failing
or the wind is rustling above me
or the choir is drowning my solo
or maybe a dog is scampering
or maybe the groundskeeper, he’s
making sure the damned dirt is
firmly pat, pat, patted down

how cruel that the wind would blow
and all i want is just a little
more, barely even a gasp of it,
and these cracks showing darker
cevices in a damp, crowded space
and that blessed rustling above
ensuring that what’s left of me is
under deep, deep, deeper grounds

and my heart is screaming like
the sound of my own name failing
when only one or two or pairs of one
appear at my gravesite to save face
and say the shit you never said coz
really it’s shit you never meant
to say or do or show or hide that
silently kill, kill, killed me