Crossroad, the silos

Her scarf dangled there
like a loose thread.

I guess you could say.

Behind a newspaper you whisper
velcro words that will stick for
some time
now

as then.

Standing on metaphorical plinth
give an inch

give an inch

on craggy chins
the beard

hides sins.

An empty landscape
a crossroad

a silo, the

train tracks where the trajectory cuts through
the empty landscape of crossroads
silos dusty on the iris
blurred on the lens
here in some outback place
back of beyond the boondocks

the hinterland where ghosts of dead prostitutes litter
the ether and the rain comes down like Indian arrows.

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