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