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  • You ask me how it is and I shrug.

    You taste the picture in your head
    the sweetness of this rural life
    the away of it

    your hands drawing mountains and fields
    flowers and birds in the air.
  • How do I crack open
    for you
    the agony of a place so green

    at least on the face of it, on the pretty pretty face of it,

    the face that you see in your mind’s eye when you think of me here



    where
  • windshield and wheel and window cut short

    the tender dance of someone

    becoming someone else’s dinner

    as we race on oblivious,
    headlong into the night.
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