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4.  T h e   S c r e a m s

       Every winter,

on cold, moonless nights

at the cemetery,

I hear them

whooshing like ghosts

trapped in a bell jar,

some from the joy

of a job, others

bubbling with blood

and the frothy spit

of a rabid dog.

Every winter,

on cold, moonless nights

at the cemetery,

so muffled

they’re barely audible,

they swish

inside the snifters

of my ears

like scorpions

issuing from the buried,

each dark grave

the caved-in shaft

of a small Chisos mine.