What is your opinion of this imagistic poem?
I sit here in the gloom of pre-dawn, trying.
My fingers are losing words from their tips
to the screen.
I cannot tell you of the graves down Jeanerette,
with the rusted cane harvesters
lying askance the soupy, back rows...
or the gleaming white of their, once-upon-a-time,
occupants...
or feelings of mortality
as I drive by,
wondering if there is a harvester with my name
on it, my birthdate, date of death...whatever
comes with the fact
that I walked, laughed, cried.
Who tolls that bell for me?
There was no church available