of old scotch is left on
the stone,
beneath
which
a body lies, long gone.
the birth and death,
and name,
carved clearly.
there's a pack
of lucky strikes
left on the marker,
a box of strike
wooden
matches too.
he was Pharoah of some
sort,
i imagine,
lacking his own
pyramid,
just a cold blanket
of snow,
the low winter
light making it
blue.
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