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In cemeteries I have a way 

of being content,

and sitting on the grass against a gravestone

finding the melancholy peaceful.

Not feeling so would seem sacrilegious.

Sitting in the shade of the junipers,

I think of the squirrel looking at me

as he holds his partially eaten acorn.


At parties I have a way

of being unhappy,

and in my can of beer is a half-emptiness.

The cluttered noise around me is strangely measured,

like a row of gravestones in a park.

I sip my beer and contemplate

the woman staring across from me,

and smile at her


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