May 24, 2011
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First I puncture the window
with a split and bloodied hand
that, like a soldier's widow,
pours liquid from its gland.
Then I dent and rip the hood
from underneath the shards
upon which rain and snow once stood
and where nightly reflections starred.
The tires, they're not yielding
to any tool of mine,
so like a groundless building,
I leave them just to time.
The antennae, like a landmark
that reads things from the sky
now only sees that which harks
to our own ears and eyes.
The pipes that spit out smoke
into the lungs of time
that have only ever spoke
to rust and mold and grime
am I save for last
and a final day most slow,
for these work most fast,
and strike he harshest blow.

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