My foot stumbles
on a child size grave
moss laden
here in
the high grass
where sharp,
autumn leaves pile.
Toadstools spot mark
the ground
where air is
wet with damp.
Snails trailing
on the cold tombstone.
Carrier bags drift nearby
like jellyfish
tangled up
in the underbrush,
and a condom
still wet with sludge
dangles on a weeping branch,
a victory banner.
I unravel my scarf,
wrap it around
the neck of the grave.
Cardinal red
feigning blush
off the stone,
while a brisk wind blows.
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