For Nostalgia’s Sake

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I had been caught in the grip
of a vacant lot with a plot
of exodus nailed to my kneecaps,

and I was disguised in the musk
of autumn leaves and the cloak
of dusk, observing the mutters of traffic

as they pointed the way to the pale
light of need. I remember that moment
and of course I have to laugh

at such childishness, before
barging in with the fury of one
thousand black hole summers –

a history that never was and never
will exist within any of the ragged ciphers
we so flagrantly refer to as truth,

though the wind still ravages our blue
slumber with its whispers and promises
of paste monuments rising like grimy fingernails

in the bleak night
                           of our finality.

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