you are stoned
cold fluorescents

you are two hundred miles
away from lake erie in
the first summer of your
son’s tiny life and
the news isn’t

a tumor possibly
or a body dug up or
maybe as many as
a hundred

maybe the neighbor disappeared
and his wife found
hacked to pieces in the

all of this talk of
a simpler america that
never was

and do you still dream of
the cages
your grandfather helped build?

of the women
herded into them at

even here
three hundred years later
in this air-conditioned room
there is till the smell
of burning witches

is still the stench of

and what the two of us hide
is the fact
that we know each other

that we number
the bleeding horse among
our friends

and at the end of the day
you lock up your desk while
i kiss your wife good-bye

we pass on the street
without a word
and two hours later
the first candle is lit on the
hill of fifteen crosses

like everything before it
it will fail to
drive the dark away

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