January 8, 2008
Right when
the white pillars started crashing,
scarring the earth,
atomic explosions gathered speed.

With all the glory,
I can't be seen.
The green grass
and trees begin to frail at the seams,
and the essential dreams
wrap up the time machine.

Putting forth my two left feet,
running far beneath the 49 places I'd like to go,

To a bay.
White birds on the railroad,
The wind humms outside,
hair in my eyes.
Underneath October skies,
within a pacific sunset.

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