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second attempt with a fading hangover

all streets lead
nowhere

it's not a revelation
but the words still feel right
on this last good afternoon in the
season of rust

i have spent
most of the day fighting with my wife
about money

i have left my son alone with his tars
in a curtained room

small events that help define
what war feels like
ten thousand miles away from the
corpses of the butchered
and the sunlight is liquid
and the shadows blurred and
i am watching a woman
wearing a scarf get
into a car

i am watching the wind create
a funnel of leaves on the
front steps of the
house next door

and when the mail arrives
a man i will never meet has sent me
his poems

has asked for my opinion
but
i have nothing to offer

words tell truths or
they tell lies

the bleeding horse cannot
be killed

this isn't meant to keep
anyone from trying

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