Peripheral

Talk of killing in the back of a van
with bad suspension while
the landscape vibrates with the
engine. They spit sunflower
seeds into the sticky interiors
of aluminum cans.
At city intersections or on-ramps
they see men and women with signs,
beaten down by the sun and lack of sleep.
Flies swarm around the sinks in the back
of restaurants in the summer, and all anyone
does is hope that no one, who matters, sees it.
Malnourished animals skulk the streets
in the dark searching for anything they can
scavenge to live on for the night.
The world is full of certain people sitting
comfortably in their chairs.
They don’t ever look past their own faces
into other’s, and they haven’t seen the
dead birds or the sea.

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