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Thursday, November 13, 2014

11/13/2014





The better part of so many.

The negative space of bridges.

The sleet-slurried red lights
Lofted over never
Held water.

The unbought house’s
Doorframes
Spilled with unharvested corn.

In the way the Ford’s headlights
Move upon the face of the early dark,
We have been outlived by the age,

And put
Too many ways across and upon.

One last set of embarrassed evenings
Spent upon
The banks I’ve dragged behind me,

And the stars will
Trace sprocket-turns and spirals
On the bedroom walls
Of all these strangers.