It seems a strange thing to do
after the dried leaves have been swept away
from the rows of dirt, like the soft places where we lie down together.
It seems a strange thing to do
in the morning air, gray with the steam from our mouths
and cold enough for hats and gloves and thick jackets like quilts
to poke holes in the black soil, stirred and loosened and not yet frozen.
It seems a strange thing to do
to drop these pale hardened shapes like testicle, like ovaries
into the earth to sleep to freeze beneath the snow
hidden in secret graves, in pits like skulls.
It seems a strange thing to do
with Spring on the other side of the world
as many months away as its memory
to just leave them there in the park
and wait.
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