The dark mouths of the mausoleums yawn,
and the headstones lean as if tired.
Oh, Josie, I am tired.
Kudzu climbs these stones,
and it clings the way you clung, Josie.
Your tight fingers clung to every moment.
Forgive me, I sometimes prayed you would let go.
So here we are, a dozen mourners
in the middle of a sea of stone,
and oh, Josie, this place will be your home.
We stand beneath a concrete-colored sky,
and the wind weeps with us.
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