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bowl of clouds

I taped up my hunting rifle. I went out into the blue-sky morning, searching for serenity. Church bells rang in an abandoned city. The wind performed a roll-call of forgotten names in the air. I found pictures of my greyed-out sister leaving flowers at our father's grave. All the telephone numbers have been reconfigured beyond my access. I wish I could kiss R.'s bare belly. All the names have been reconfigured beyond my access. I fear the chill air of morning between the grocery store and the post office. I searched all morning for serenity. All I found was a bowl of clouds and mountains. I carry these things into a room of dirty carpet and old linoleum. I open a window in time to watch the last hours of light. The air tastes like aluminum. I die quietly inside myself and plan my last footprints for Washington state.

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