over the rusted vines

when I was a boy a graveyard looked like a playground; I always wondered what went on when the sun slept, when thousands of lights spread like yellow acne on the hills of Palos Verde.

… and I still wonder …

I wonder if the corpses walk with the mourners along the roof of the dead and when the chain linked fence rattles in the night I watch the well-dressed carcass crawl over the rusted vines and onto the quiet avenue; its muddy feet shuffle along the road, dark brown trails painted on the soil then covered with Black; the occasional car speeds through the fog and the mist …

but for some unknown reason … never sees a goddamn thing.

 

 

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