in winter light
and on the road,
the view of his heart
holding up a dead hare
does not see the life of his kill
with one sentence
gesture of hand or mute voice
eyeballs roll
teeth crackle
nails turn
driving away to the mountains for retreat
pushing down the snow
rolling over the signs with rubber
rigid as jewels though, not as beautiful
his hand is stead fast
to the fumes
of a blind soul
a good old fashion nightmare
and gossip
music has no poetry
cords lost on nerves
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