the complex changes
names. The Flats,
The Villas, pretty gauze
for old wounds. As if
we forgot the bullets,
the children that fell, the angry
boyfriends living w/children
they do not love. I drive by
& try to remember when
pieces fit. A cloud
of cardinals explodes
from a snow drift, the splash
of my tires etching dirt
in the bank. All this flying,
impact, stain. Don’t tell me
you can’t see.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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