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In the Parish of Ascension,
up All Souls Lane, tucked away
burial plan and nettles
absent, a disagreement
with cold space this visible
reality:
picture its form: on the other side
of the sentence, logical dulled stone
with name and life-range,
flat as . . . no celebration . . .
snug or uncomfortable
in the tightly packed plot
plot 5, row D, almost passed over
as you sightsee, weaving
in the frost-glaze and suncut
of midwinter, alone
with no one to speak . . . of, to . . .
as if you could be there too,
a description and a municipal fact,
to say unordered thoughts
aren't protracted, a discernible
condition, quietly
to propose blackbirds
so much louder
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