or she's eighteen and
her wrists are healing
the hills rise up on
every side of this town and
i get a letter from a man who tells me
that the indians have their casinos
that all debts have been repaid
and i drive slowly into the city
with a handful of poems
and a belief in empty spaces
i offer columbine as one choice
and cobain as the other and
no one speaks
no one stops me when i
get up to leave
and when she's twenty one
she no longer dreams about the
god of starving dogs
when she's twenty three
she could be anyone
it happens as simply as war
a man approaches you with a gun
and you live or you die
you learn to build houses
from the bones of priests
you're buried in the
frozen soil like a dog
like so much garbage
and the days move on effortlessly
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