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A Poem: Poughkeepsie Is A Color You Do Not Understand 

I looked at something and it made everything seem like I was standing with you in a field.
We were in the middle of it, the field.
You were caring about everything, everything until the sky was filled with your care for empty places you can only forget, like your care for Poughkeepsie.
And the space near the field was what no one could see.
And there was a window made of nonroad into a place where there are no cars, no cars only your memories of forgetting Poughkeepsie, memories meant for nothing your memories of the fields meant for doing nothing, the fields meant for doing nothing near Poughkeepsie.
And we were doing nothing together wearing shirts made of things you can’t remember and feelings.
But we were above the field and without road, without road, without it with the color you don’t understand
that makes Poughkeepsie never be with you, the color that makes Poughkeepsie a pure truth within us
through care used and gone and great fields of disappearance which hold us upon its emptiness always.

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  • A poem by Brian Loatman

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