Cemetery
Scott Garson
The dead get privileges once a year and seem not to know what to do with themselves. A boy in breeches sits in a tree, kicking his legs in moonlight. A woman watches the bell of her dress as she turns. An old man tries a handstand. Do they feel that they have all the time in the world? Maybe they don’t really think about that. They just loll, like anyone else might do on a warm, forgettable night.
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