Main Street

It’s not mock originality confronting us all,/it’s the abandoned firework factory, the lights at intervals /morning’s deepest tincture that swells/to give toys to infants long since grown, some departed./It’s refreshing here,/sometimes it signals it’s own sameness/signatures of the anonymous alliance with heaven./Deep wells of chemistry shake in the canyon/we participate in uneasy sleep,/ startled only by the roar of a gas saw./Television, most oblique,/ on it people riot, the world over,/ protest humanity and recent decrees, /opening up wounds we’re unable to heal./A moving picture, a public hanging/we watch it whiz past on the screen/ numbers of boulevards, cities, ones dearest.

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