WHERE the old winding road twists
through the sleepy village of Locust Valley
lies a cemetery.

The easternmost slope bulges out
in a U shape and hangs a dozen feet or so
above the ground.

The Taylor family plot resides there
next to an eighty-year-old maple,
whose roots have broken through the
cold, stone wall.

At night, from the street, it looks like
large, beastly arms beckoning upward to join it.

I jerk off there sometimes.