It wasn’t like a moonbeam, or a scythe cutting
through leathery stalks–learning to forget
questions inch-worming along cobwebs in the

back of the mind. The process is a silent one,
car cruise-controlling on US-31, Northward into
flatscapes and bleached cornfields, craving

cool ghosts of the mountains. The bereft bad-
lands of the Midwest can only dream of jagged
altitudes, the movement in a body of water as

it shines, slithers down striped limestone and
calcium from ground antlers and Cherokees.
His teeth are like stars, they only come out at night

There is no proper way of asking him if he is going
to forget the loneliness of sitting on blue sand,
delicate shell-crabs skitter by under the white moon,

I just pray he remembers the chain-smoking that night,
his fingertips shaking like graves,the way nicotine
wandered endlessly like a lost ghost along the hazy shore.


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