Hills for hounds

I lay and wondered
Who tripped over the hill I made
For the hill to have.
Who tripped into the grave
I dug for myself.

My old body lay still,
Under proof of life
Staked in granite
With rainy day mourners
Under meteors.

Walter next to me
And every Stearns
Had a whale song.
And some, their coffins,
Were scratched.

The black mulch yard was
Kicked up from under bushes
For the bones of Margaret Holmes
And the fragile
Black hair still in a pony tail.

Proof of it on Mars
Sit where the leaves compost in muddy inches
Down dug in with my soul.
Sit on the hill on the hill
Or next to the hole.