looking closer at
the blood in your smile
digging deeper for
the missing child
finding nothing
which is how these stories
always end
finding the bones of slaves
the ghosts of indians
my father
his coffee cup
his left hand with the
cigarette grown cold in it
his anger wrapped neatly in
black rags of self-pity
these highways which take us nowhere
which end up in cities or towns
no more or less desperate
than the ones we've left behind
these sidewalks with their
crosses of colored chalk
these houses with lit candles
at every window
with the mother tied up and
beaten to death on the living room floor
the son tied up and beaten to death
on the living room floor and the
fact that i have moved past the point
where anyone mentions me
as a friend
the fact that i
yell at my children too often or that
they love me without reservation
my wife asleep on the couch in the
middle of a perfect july afternoon
my eyes closed
everything i fear just waiting
for me to open them
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