Rubbings

At a not-so-wise hour
St. Kevin and I alone
Making grave rubbings
Of the names of beauties

Who were now asleep
In the eternal mystery,
As Kevin opined,
With his Clementines

And Veronicas clutched
Like blueprints under his arm.
The evergreens lurked
Overhead with the grace

Of a long-fingered Dracula
In a black-and-white movie.
These are aren’t even good
Copies, I said, but he

Would hear none of it,
Although only vultures
Followed him around now
As if waiting for his final

Commune with the animal world.
I’m looking for a particular
Whore, Kevin squawked,
Whose toes stick out

Wiggling above her grave.
We never found her,
Or anything worth keeping
That moonless night.

Instead, we made paper hats
Of our work and got drunk
In a patch of nettles
Trying to remember the way home.