Like the Buddhist
I do not believe
in the afterlife
but on Sundays
When the bells ring
in the lonely town
of Leverett
And there are
Those I know
Burried nearby
I stop to hear
Not their dirge
Though their names
Be in it
But rather
I would like to think
Our secret pond
That one time
We swam
A car ride
For Chinese food
Or our beautiful walk
For coffee
The back and forth
Of you and me rocking
Before our tongues
Could curl
Move or flex
To move through it all
To say what we have to say
Or just to make a sound.
