notes from last year

the rain and I are fragile

this train must split

I am not made up of a city

or any other place

these rails are wet

yes and it looks like a funeral

on the other side of the river

our path is made of asphalt

but not dirt the water and sky

are one connected by a thousand

holes in between you and me

a vehicle crawls across a bridge

filled with Great Depression era buildings

at the other side drab monoliths

and dead strangers possess us

yet their wrists vibrate

when holding pens

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