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Dry talking habits.

It's an art form - contrition.
We went slow dancing in the dark once:
a soldier, a poet, a king.
Did you care?
Everything stayed.
When did it get so normal?
My lines feel it all around -
Darling! Destroy it!
I wrote twenty-one letters,
got in my car,
and that ghost - DAMN that valley -
that ghost of the adults talking,
left me star roving
from Texas to Brooklyn Bridge,
searching for any family values
written in the constellations with
our spiritual love.

One Comment Add yours

  1. So haunting. Twenty years in one short poem.

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