On the road water dribbled uphill,
the sun felt some need to slide the dimmer and be lost
to the crawling moisture, and is
barely a flicker in the corner of an eye:
a broken white boy without a bike.
Down the street in the back of an ambulance.
Perhaps the saxophone solo should kick in here?
Within, the top of the back of the van lacks distinction,
only a rose shaded cream that spirals in
towards some nexus of material that holds this together.
This could be whatever he desired
and is nothing he envisaged.
Only a headache and rough, bloodied chin
below an eye that threatens color to never get there.
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