The living love cemeteries.
Just ask the moody photographers
sneaking their clients out
to the old city graves
as the golden hour winds down,
stretching shadows on a Saturday evening
as Autumn color peaks dying brilliance,
avoiding the caretaker who always shows
too much interest in what’s going on,
women whispering, tiptoeing through
the oldest tombstones, avoiding
pinecones and acorns under bare feet,
holding their breath and carefully leaning
over lichen-covered Civil War-era stones,
trying not to pull a string
on their black silk, lace lingerie.

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