The stones irregular, sunken after

so many ages. The keepers of this place

must be proud with their trimming tools.

The world's most even grass

is in graveyards.


And some are overgrown, no

keepers, proud or otherwise, 

to tend the dead and the solitary

markers covered with leaves,

unvisited. Forgotten.


"I love graveyards!" I rejoice

as the sun begins to hide

behind distant blued hills.
"So do I," the hand touched

my shoulder and I smiled.
"Who are you?" I asked, staring

at the born date and death date

of an ancestor.


"I am dead," he said.
"What makes you special?" I

was not impressed. Everyone here

was dead, afterall.

"I was murdered and I know that

my killer is buried here not far away."
"So there is ultimate justice. Where

do you lie, your ashes, I mean?"

"Come," I said. "I will show you."


I am ghost gullible when I visit

graveyards. Ghoulish imagination
gets the best of me. The way

the foot sinks in overly
moist feeling like it

on earth or in it.

But to walk freely

among the stones, it is easy

to conjure a ghost with a history

as I walk from tombstone
to tombstone, wondering

who they all were.







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