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Blacktop


There is a certain stretch of highway where my brother was thrown.
         Skidded on skin. His broken neck mended
                   with chrome halo and screws.
Farther north, a second brother did succumb. Falling to curve
         at the fence line. Scent of whiskey in his speed.
                   What he finally could not forgive, having changed his
first name to Blue. His last to Freedom. Leaving behind
         two daughters to mourn and an ex-wife who claimed him
                   as the love of her life.
Third brother hangs an army jacket on a simple cross
            as marker in the field of swallowed sorrow.                  
                       Camouflage decanso.
                                   
My eye sees as far as it can see, and then, is startled.    
           Loosened nuts and bolts and shattered corners of press board
                     dislodge from the back of trucks in front of me.

Fragments flail in flutter before they break away. Projectiles
           litter center lines. Settle on random meridians.
                           Hitchhikers of glass and Styrofoam. Pillows and shoes.

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