a man you don't know found
behind the wheel of someone else's car
and he's come a long way to
tell you his story
he has nothing to say
poems maybe
written in blood or in piss on
a bus station wall or maybe spelled out
with the bones of indians along
the edge of the interstate
someone else's city
seen from a distance
almost beautiful
the sound of sunlight
off of chrome and dirty glass
the weight of your heat or
the absence of it
all of that time we wasted at the top
of burnt hill road
this man and the letters i sent him
and then the fact of his death
the news of his silence
what it means
never quite clear
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