and if there are prayers out
here at the edge of this wilderness,
they are for my children
if there is weakness,
it’s my own
and this is not de chirico’s country,
but these are his shadows crawling like
cancer through overgrown back yards,
down empty streets, and i am the
son that pollock never spoke of
look at my hands
the broken one here and
the lame one here and
i find myself standing with clenched
fists in empty rooms or in buildings
that no longer exist
i grow sick at the
thought of money
at the need for it
this is how i know i’m on
the wrong side of everything
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