our beginnings and ends were train stations
your broken glasses, the grease of the foodcourt
seeping into our clothes, effacing the familiar,
an unfinished goodbye drowned out by loudspeakers and luggage carts
a harbinger of paths that could be traveled
but not followed
unfinished movies and meadows, apricots in spaghetti,
stacks of library books and calloused power chords later
botanical gardens and broken nails, gins and tonics later
eastbound, the sterile metal doors snapped open and shut
the summer wind hurtled past grand
tears on the pavement cooked and evaporated
and time marched forward.
if I'd capitulated to the west, I'd be under a harvest moon
pondering Ernest Hemingway's run on sentences
poorer, lonelier, fighting without screaming, but dreaming in semicolons
watching the earth tremble in the drink in your hand
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