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He turns around and looks
past the cart of vegetables and
sees past what they cost, the innumerable hours
he would spend to afford them
and he walks, on the hour of sunset, to
the place where there is no plague and
no want for wisdom. She at the door greets
him and takes his hand, it becomes night time
and he is inside and outside the
city, far away, floating into what he used
to call the sky. She pretends to be an oil
painting and they are rejoined at sunrise. It’s
too early and a little bit too present is
the sun, light of super highways on
skin and information in the name of mars.
The sight is men from his years as
a soldier, fighting the weather for
oil and getting to a village, only
dripping with spirit.