in some stilted way
the decided, unspoken modus
eyes glazing over with grass burns
and the shattered factories
their bricks chipping off like sand
would chip if physics were different
and splitting were not what we
were best at
and the low sun spitting sparks
like a novelist on his last platform
which was also his birthplace
the way noon feels to us
in the train car, for me
inventing new ways, things to hate
but leaving reasons off like blackbirds
splashing in the mounted frame
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