Epitaphs In Granite
Run rabbit run, Updike is dead,
Run rabbit run, Updike is dead,
His unwritten pages on a pyre
Turned to ash, turned to smoke,
Turned to layers of earth left untilled,
Turned to grey fog not unlike a ghost
Lifting over a New England field of green
Where rabbits run between headstones
In the fading, failing of twilight falling
Across our final lines, our epitaphs in granite.
Turned to layers of earth left untilled,
Turned to grey fog not unlike a ghost
Lifting over a New England field of green
Where rabbits run between headstones
In the fading, failing of twilight falling
Across our final lines, our epitaphs in granite.
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