this town has been dead for generations
a diagonal sun casts corrugated shadows from the slumped rooflines
here we find our work ravelling the rusted intestines
here where we reassemble ourselves
our place of vision so to speak
two kids following the train tracks like a dry stream bed
pick up a pink umbrella left inside-out by the wind
taking turns they wave it overhead their vibrant eviscerated flag
another dream to collapse into another evening
I light another cigarette to prolong my vigil
the calculus of this place cascades over the ledge of observation
no one is entirely still or isolated
the death that comes is what daily divides us.
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