the old moon
comes out yellow
tonight. a harvest
moon over the bland
empty field that
separates homes
from factory, over
the single black road
in and out of
this town. and
the woods on the
far reach, where
the rubble is
stirs with movement,
kids of age seeking
love, or what they
percieve love to be
at sixteen. and a
an old dog howls
somewhere, and a
the cars have nowhere
to go at this hour.
and the blue lit
rooms with televisions
pulse with the slow
heartbeat of old
age and no age
and another tomorrow
awaiting news.
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