at the gates of twilight

Here is a simple truth or two that I have learned about the cemetery (any cemetery for that matter):

1. The old tree with whom I do not know its name but whom I'd like to call Mavis, that is a good spot to sit and let your back rest against a wooded knot, while you try and eat a blood orange peacefully and to twiddle your fingers delicately along the spine of its peel until it is nothing but citrusy spray left as simple residue on your sleeping tongue and cold hands, much like perfume.

2. Broken headstones make for a marvelous picture, but a hard pang in your heart. A very, very hard pang.