Zombified in the dark morning
when it’s cold enough to make
you run inside, but they won’t let you
so you make due with a jacket.
All the numbers show up different
than you thought they would
like the wheel understood
the limits of your luck
enough to stop you in your tracks
and hold you hostage.
Padlocked boxes at the bottoms
of local lakes like the protectors
of the greatest local secrets.
Sand eating away the dead bark
with the friction as provided
by the orbit of the moon however crooked.
They have a dream of growing moss up
there and by they of course I mean
the faceless few who are obsessed with
outer space.
Give up on the murals with no faces
on the backsides of old liquor stores,
no one will be back to finally finish them.
They will sit there in their silence now forever.
Christmas lights are forgotten on the gutters
of old houses where the the grass is tall,
and every wall is caving,
forget the consequences present
in the painting and just hang it up
to see what people say.

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