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Cemetery Under the Pines

The tombstones now have white eyes,
Their blues, their browns have gone.
Their smiles, somewhat sardonic,
Have gone unchanged through
Many changes in climatic conditions.
Each tombstone's countenance
Is that of a Dadaist wearing a monocle.
The dark smears on the fleece of the stone lamb
Are black humor. Their bitter laughter
Has wrinkled under their lips
To make the skin resemble fishing lines lost on telephone wires.
I walk among  these tombstones,
My only conversation is with my wristwatch.
Its loquaciousness does not allow me to speak.