forest glenn

i have seen the men who do not cry
crying too much this week, shoulders
unaccustomed to shaking, breaking
down in the summer heat like an
avalanche.

they buried him beneath a small
maple by the 4 trees where
we used to meet and smoke.
we sang bankrupt on selling
and wept beside a tombstone
that reads "butt."

afterwards, we did not know
what to do-- we sat in our suits
in the dirt and broke twigs
in silence.