The
morning’s raw with frost;
there’s
no one near to see
how
lichen smears away
old names
from graves
stacked
high as tables,
nor number
the leaves
that flake
from planes,
branch-bare
above
those who
walk, crisp
through
the park, eyes
turned from
the gate ahead.
I count no
feet on the slabbed street,
only the dead under their stone.
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