good time charlie falls
asleep under bruises,
blanketing the garish night.
eyes close on delicates, veined webs
and he watches from the inside as
banks break, and our lies of drought
(farmers falling onto browned grass, hot sun
of our searing plains)
become lies of the departed.
(and the wind curls around him)
sleep clatters like a train on
rusty tracks but
you; you are silent
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