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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.