Cemetry Under the Pines

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.

Duane Locke

Posted over on Unlikely Stories