are
tilted in the old grave
yard.
brushed
brown in time.
the letters
and numbers fading,
the impressions
smoothed.
below lie the bones
of the dead.
small stones for some,
what they could
afford.
the clerk,
the minister, the woman
who
cleaned the houses.
one who
baked bread.
and
the governor too
has a corner.
a bench, an angel
with wings
for him, but
no bigger beneath the earth
than me
or you.
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