old mattress and box springs in  the alley in the drizzle

ticket stubs in jacket pocket forgotten long ago

phone numbers and addresses of the dead

memory of birds across sunset over wetlands, many egrets shining white

little towns passing by, malls, car dealerships, rush hour traffic

that sleeper train we took from mexico city to oaxaca city no longer runs through those cutbanks (rail lines privatized, sold off for bus lines)

frozen mornings in the gold country passing through, everything frosty or wet

mysterious ranch houses and driveways emerging from orchards on highway 99

rain in the blackberries, on your shoulders and then pantslegs

car lights moving off down the avenue into Brooklyn dusk, streetlight flickering on and off later in the dark

it comes back to you later, a title that you were trying to remember in conversation

finally I was tired of driving, drove the main drag of Seligman, Arizona to stop at the Supai Motel, awoke bitten by bedbugs

after dinner, Andy said he’d been knocked off his bike and thrown across parked vehicles

descending Deer Mountain, through the swirling clouds appears sometimes the Tongass Narrows, the waterfront town of Ketchikan

what happened to those people, a box of postcards I sent that no one will read now

the stories and feelings and world of a generation past that we can’t feel or know really anymore

except like the wind blowing with a sound like water through high treetops

or perhaps the dusty trail on a summer day but who knows even then

some radio signal from far away might change everything, a world that could change like that and take them with it

 

 

 

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