| This contusion-colored evening
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| maybe you paint the silhouette
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| of the gaunt tree line singed in '97
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| when wildfires threatened my development
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| and the swallowed towns the Klan had founded
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| the shaded sand dens were party caverns
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| for them who’d come hallucinate while we slept
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| scaring our rabbits to death in their hutches
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| can’t remember how I used to live
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| but they’ve all cased their jumps
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| fatally I willed it to be
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| in the hours of blankness preceding sleep
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| oh the years we waste faking remorse
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| every decision I have ever made
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| bred the branching future’s mute howlers
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| with burst-vessel red eyes
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| roaring inaudibly
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| on the freezing morning walk to the dim corner grocery
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| what hangs over big empty country
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| reborn in negatives of photos of dusk
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| regret so huge it’s on a phantom axis
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| receding beaches hissing hearing damage
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| and the miles-long column of cold moonlight cast across
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| still seas when my nose begins to bleed
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| some submitted to having their lights put out
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| by basement thrill killers
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| in the neighborhood I heard being murdered is no experience
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| ten or eleven wounds
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| in it’s not about Satan or anything you just die
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| it’s weird |