"These are your dead. They are buried above ground, so it is hard to say they are buried. Often, they are among us: a parasol on a sunny day, a partnerless shoe.
The lupine shudder with every gust. Their purple buds thread up like kitchen brushes from the graves. There are many gardens here. There are many feet wearing uneven treads on the soil.
If you took a photo negative of me right now, you would see the heat outlines of ghosts. The upright caskets are violent with their exhaust. This is me placing flowers on a stone. This is me besides the wisteria, twisted around the gate's trellis. These are your solar flares."
- Oliver de la Paz
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