& endeavor no atonement. I’ve gone west
& met plateaus & red dirt hearts of gilded silver,
gone south & found the weather of the sickly roadrunner
before the highway, witness to both a then & now––
The past is in this air, this now, is in this charge upon my brittle
& cold fingernails, so I slip them out the window & into gray,
through white blind space. The past is why I love,
the past is why I love what smothers me,
the way that my breath mars the passenger seat,
the way these flying cars beat their souls against a sun.
The past is why I love the way the moon will laugh
at my carcass in the great yellow someday.
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