How cold it is,
that white sun smoking overhead,
powerful contours of snow

braiding, dividing
around the stones,
sheeting and rumpling as if

something were struggling
to break through.
In this place

memory’s no salvation,
there’s no cause to wake
or trouble us, in this place love

has dwindled to fatigue
like winter gardens
discarded to this

whirl of dirt,
to these heaviest
of days, to this most durable

of our inclinations.

— John Engels

“Adam in the Graveyard” is from Engels’ recently published volume, House and Garden, University of Notre Dame Press.

This article appears in Apr 24-30, 2002.

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