The Dead Aren’t Quaint

The Dead Aren’t Quaint

I gathered a bottle of roses

and wore a rayon red dress

and sat in the oldest cemetery I could find

brown leaves twirled

descending in single file

and flew around stone angels

like gifts from 3 billion meteorites

I couldn’t see in the cloud covered sky

a dog barked in the distance

I had nothing to mourn

during the tornado gray silence

only old poems to read

what about those pages?

emily dickinson is dead, isn’t she?

the moon came out

my hand rested on the clock  




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