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from a night of disturbed sleep
all my troubles so distant now
covered over by the green moss of days
generally content with the passage of time
and the early morning Brooklyn trees budding and birds chirping
a kind of joy here sprouting forth from concrete
a resigned religious passage to the days
I think of Peter Taylor
that 35 year old Tennessee bachelor in NYC
and all the others who hated their provincial small towns
stomping through the endless smoggy Brooklyn night
eternal exiles
a little bit of concrete having been soldered onto their hearts
in the morning light there is a glimmer of hope
for the damned like myself
showering is so pleasurable
the breeze through the open bathroom window
memories of Portland ten years ago–different coast, different bathroom window
dead times I never recorded
so many dead times that will fall away into oblivion when the bodies that experienced
them die
memories like the black boxes
of slow-crashing passenger planes


Aaron Lake Smith

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