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Poem: at 24 

it was when Danny
was in
from Spain

and I had left
New Orleans

the five of us
on the edge of
the road
in Utah

graduated
jobless
tired and
undrunk

there were no
cars
around
not even
way out

where the thin
black
line of the pavement
cut through the
desert sand

the wind did
not play

no guitars or
music of any
kind

and a long & loping
melody
simply did not
happen

as we sat talking

(about when we
would arrive
in the next town

and what we
would
eat)

with our voices
a small dull
sound
on the rock
with no echo

and the sun there
in front of us

with only a few
pink clouds

and the sky on
fire
and this fire
running at me
like
a wild animal

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