words written in the street
on the sides
where the garbage collects
and all of them stained with salt
distant
like the voices of ghosts
or faint like the sun in february
and what she says is that she
doesn't want to fight anymore
where we are is the fraying edge
of someone else's city
seventy miles an hour and
the prayers that wrap around us like
rusty wire
the houses that have burned
and the ones
that are dying slowly
the fields where nothing grows
where christ is just a rumor
and the crows are all starving and
what she says is that she
thinks we're lost
what she says is that
the pills aren't working
and i take her hand and
think about what happens next
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