Thursday, April 18, 2013

npm: 18



parking lot of religion argument
railroad tracks by the boy's house
the sound they make passing under my moving
junkyard gone--where do junkyards go?
everywhere there ever was a kiss--
front yard
in hunks of metal
over breakfast
below the table
in company of stars that never promised anything

there is the fence
gone or broken, hardly matters
neighborhood of deadends
shallow of our deep ends
what ever the fire ate away
swigs of a building gone
one black bicuspid jutting
sidewalk of polka dot gum rot
sunset grinning over memory
and even that
reads like fiction
at this point

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