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From my window overlooking the freeway

We will go on many years like this, clutching our little psychologies in narrow lines clipping along like prosperous cattle

under the clock's prod.

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Each morning the face

of a former beauty queen

sits at our tables

and tallies the night's toll

of mutilated and murdered

while we take note, forget

go on. The time has come

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when the very rocks open and cry out

against us

and we do not have words

to speak.

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