October sunk the grass
Enough to tell us
Where the caskets set.

The ones who hadn’t stones,
So only in the heavy rains
Could they be paid respect,
Their limits traced in ruts
To map the cemetery plaid.
We’d give them names
And cigarette butts at lunchtime.

Mud made pains to keep us then,
Begging at our heels,
And it was louder
When the waxing cold
Lent substance to a smoky breath.

Those friends in fall
Without but truant
Words to hear,
With rain to make them
Vivid and with wasted nicotine.

#Paris #France

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