the hand is tiny
the mother history

softly
out where the pacific
comes up hard against
the bitter end of
the twentieth century

softly
where the front door
swings back and forth in
a hot breeze

and will you be
the one
to step forward and stop this
small tragedy before
its inevitable conclusion?

the answer
spoken or unspoken
is no
and you are not alone

the dogs will eat their fill
and the angels will sing
some serious fucking blues

beautiful young women will
sit at the open windows
of second story apartments
and cry

this is happening
even now

this has always been
happening

the fragile beauty of
innocence
refusing to be destroyed
with the thing itself

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