297/365: Our Impossible Paths
They send me photos
to show me the headstones,
to show me how they kneeled there.
They describe the graveyard
and its unknown tenants,
its monuments propped up,
and this is what consumes my hours today.
The afternoon sun describes an arc
against the glass across the street,
a sun that plots the graph of our impossible paths,
and there is nothing left to do.