The West

here, the graves 
are worn away 
by the rain. here, 
the city is clean.
it tingles. glass 
skyscrapers 
and demolished 
cathedrals are 
ghosts, carrying 
bells they only 
ring in summer.
here, you let 
an epitaph hover
between your 
throat and lips
because the only 
sacred thing
is what you still 
haven’t said.