There are cemeteries that are lonely: the leaves flutter drily refusing the stiff procession to the grave, falling, and rising again, never shaken, so inconsequential you barely notice it. [1] Pablo Neruda, "Nothing But Death" [2] William Carlos Williams, "Approach of Winter" [3] Anne Sexton, "The Truth the Dead Know" [4] Ross Gay, "Prayer for My Unborn Niece or Nephew" [5] Ai, "Conversation"
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