The comet she was born under
tore through our upper atmosphere
when just before it was
a knuckle ball in space.
Her pet caterpillar never changed
into anything it just got fatter
until its guts painted the jar.
The corner store would always
sell her cigarettes even
when she was younger
with no where else to go,
but back home where all
the T.V.s played commercials.

All reflections are really as distorted
as the pictures that they duplicate and flip.
They are a trick that’s being played on us collectively.
I want all the light for nothing
and the reasons behind everything that’s hidden.
I want it written down and dropped
from every airplane.

She got a job near the end of her life
because she couldn’t make her way
on just her savings.
There was one church that still
had a set of manual chimes
you had to climb into a tower just to look at.
She had to ring them every evening to announce
services and other weekly offerings.
She would pull the chords that lead up
to the mechanism until the sun
was finally down behind the hillside.
She worked there until she finally died, on
a day when it rained paper from the sky,
and everyone would learn
what they were in for.

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