EASTER MORN at the CEMETERY
by CHAD BIRD
Ten acres of refrigerated rural soil, Thickly frosted in Easter’s pre-dawn; Subterranean saints, quilted in earth, Smile warmly at the band of believers, Huddled above to catcall verses of victory, Into the mocking mien of chiseled stones; The rocky trophies of mortality’s coup, North, south, west, and east of Eden.
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