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Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Day After Another Shooting, April 17, 2017, 11:35 PM

It tempted me, not to record
just once—it is exhausting
to account for misery, not my
own, not only my own.
I went to bed shaking last night
having watched a man
shoot an old man walking home—
we are led down pathways
and our bodies heavy the light.
The old man, his name
was Godwin. He held his plastic bag
to his head, a shield. All
night I imagined the kinds of items
he may have carried. Leftover
Easter dinner maybe, a little
chocolate egg, a card or perhaps
a golden coin. Not a gun. And where,
where did the bag end up, who
last placed the fact of tenderness
in its place—what were the
contents held up to his ear, a small
gesture, the heart only so
capable as the wind rustling a bag
into significance. Effervescent
sound of plastic, like a tree crackling
flowers, heavy with the
obligation of life, to live. Spring, put
us down now. Please.

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