Thursday, July 20, 2017

interstate, early autumn

 moving north through the
 wreckage of the 20th century

 past the collapsing barns
 and abandoned gas stations and
 endless stretches of nothing

 past the boulders spray-painted
 with three hundred years of hatred
 and if you ask for some small truth here
 i offer that i'm never fully at ease
 in the company of others

 i tell you that my anger
 feeds off of my fear
 and will therefore last forever

 and a man i have never met
 who has had half of his face blown off in
 a war fought for obscure reasons
 wants to bury me in his pain

 a woman in a town i will never see
 asks me to stop writing poetry

 asks me to explain the
 significance of four dead trees rising out
 of a pond of black water and i can't

 things exist for their own reasons

 the baby is born dead
 on a cold sunlit afternoon
 and the floor is stained with blood

 the shelves are thick with dust

 this is the world i know

 whatever beauty i find in it
 is too precious to just give away

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