in the blue and the purple light
on the shadowed sides
of these houses

in a room with a cracked window
and the ghost of edie
crawling naked across the floor

i am my father at 34
and his own father before him

i am the face my children fear
and the voice
and the raised hand

i am the emptiness and
the absence of warmth
and america is
its own form of violence

the boy is dead
next to his sister in the
back of the van

the father drives
with the radio on softly

with dylan’s voice dragging itself
through my headphones
as i sit at the foot of the bed
watching april sleep

and do you remember
the hill of fifteen crosses?

the girl you fucked there and
the way she couldn’t
remember your name?

and what about the man who
tells you you’re not a poet?

what about the way war feels
from 10,000 miles away?

all of the butchered
without faces or names and
the reasons you choose to hate

the people

and some of them i’ve known
and others have just written
to ask for favors and
in the end
there is only this street as it
crashes into the highway

this back yard turning brown
in the cold grey air of

in the blue and the
purple light of early evening

this house too cold to
ever be a home

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