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The Sexton Won’t Dig His Own


Bone tired, The Sexton sits on the grave’s edge, legs dangling in, fetching breath. 


Not his grave, but they’re becoming too comfortable, these rectangles he digs for the cemetery. For the citizens who leave the world to take up residence here.


Spring didn’t boost his constitution to where it used to. Rally and fade, rally a little.


Not many drops left, besides those last six feet.


He’s close enough that the fear of cessation lessens, leaves him.


Not yet, but not long.





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