is the Love Child of Robert Hayden and Federico García Lorca.
Good pics. I love wandering through this cemetery with camera and/or notebook: the worn, barely-legible verses on the oldest stones; the strangely beautiful orange lichen slowly filling in the chiseled letters of a name; the weeping cypress tree. The lilies, the lambs, the institutionalized iconography of death and its variations through the centuries. The small walk-in crypt behind the stone chapel where bodies used to be stored in winter when the ground was too hard, and the groundskeepers in summer storing their tools there. For some time, I've wondered if I have the nerve to trespass that space (given the chance). A few years ago, a group of poets was escorted home from the cemetery by campus police (with spotlight) when they were caught playing "light as a feather, stiff as a board" in that cemetery at night. Randy has seen ghosts there.(More than you wanted to know?)
Do please file that "from the cemetery"/"in that cemetery" sentence with the Department of Redundancy Department, please. :-P
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