I walk the alley of murder.
On the magazine cover my friend was dead.
But I will deny the killers his burial.
I will walk with him
across the bridge of light and feel
the warmth of our tears
escaping our exhausted eyelids.
Our trees will shade their walls
and our rivers will clean their hands.
I will celebrate
his birth and plant his
I’ll celebrate twice:
his birth and his death.
As I grieve, the rivers mourn the shooting stars
and the trees drop their leaves.