These audacious blossoms
are a figment of forced observation.
The exhaust for which they feel affection
is nothing greater than your childhood:
you never flew off through the windshield
and Black Friday was never as important as it seemed.
What difference does it make if birds come cunningly,
like trumpets through a wall of angry light;
if the mountains are indeed just shaking out an itch?
There never were any Indians in Columbus’ America.
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