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    Tuesday, June 21, 2005

    Prickly with head stones

    Illinois, USA

    Southwest Corners

    Breath holding to pass
    you know the old wives tale
    all of the stories piled up
    spinning round me like
    funnel clouds, makes me think funnel cake
    roller coasters, Great America, Gurnee
    and ice cream, cold and white
    layers of swirls as a topping

    Hold your breathe

    Resurrection cemetery
    I said I would take you there,
    to touch the palmed over bars
    to see the dead, photographs circular
    popped off of grave stones
    likely pocketed.
    mementos hard and fast. remembrance.

    Quick inhale

    we could walk enclosed and hear the traffic
    sifting through branches and brambles
    our vision tree pocked
    Roberts Road ringing back at us

    Cemetery white is a dirty grey

    family plots, neat little rows
    I walked between
    respectful of the rectangular shape of things
    you walked in zigzags, fully absorbing
    covering ground in loping circles
    to my one foot in front of the other,
    heel to toe and back again
    plastic vases and rows of roses
    marred by landmarks
    the map of turns in my head fuzzy
    finding them was scattered
    a series of lefts and rights,
    mostly back tracks

    Prickly with head stones

    But in the end all I could remember
    was the breath holding
    and how we never had,
    had never gone at all,
    instead I pulled and plucked from what I wished


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