Among aisles of stones like file tabs of worn
out lives are clockwork reminders of foreshortened
time where every step seems a miracle.
We fret over perpetual care on sacred ground
alive with childish dread, flowers left to fade
with memory’s hallowed neglect.
Entire worlds are interred with the grocer
and banker, lawyer and car mechanic—sink holes
of stories, TripTiks once leading somewhere.
A slope of ethnicity and time, life’s flotsam
reduces to names and numbers as the ground
vibrates with voices of Spoon River magic.
Fox kits den along the stone wall, and woodchucks
burrow beneath rotting elms. The heart is an hourglass,
the dead stir, and remembrance is resurrection.
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