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20 Lost in the Cemetery Less than twelve, I count graves where some letters are gone as if fallen into grass. First time out of the car, among stones that bear short stories, “Beloved Son,” “Devoted wife,” I walk by the markers that line up like apartments. Thinking of the dates as addresses, I fear some might sleep through my stick tapping on their door, my reading of their names aloud. I wonder whether they are always at home and if that is what it means to be here. I rub across lichens, test the firmness of roots, kneel among mayapples— their light green out of place. Under a kudzu fence, I listen to the breeze through tangles, as if vines, too, hear my calling, and know where the lost might be. ...

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