Perimeter

I missed the turn by the pharmacy sign

and ended up where the chain-link starts.

The warehouse next door has a white, halogen line

that cuts through the dark in fits and in starts.

When the motion sensor trips on the loading dock,

the beam sweeps across the rows of the dead.

It turns the granite into teeth, a cold block

of white bone rising from a grassy bed.

In a rusted metal cone by a flat, gray stone,

some plastic lilies have bleached into ghosts.

They sit in the dirt, brittle and alone,

while the warehouse hums for its nightly hosts.