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Sampson Starkweather

At the Mouth of a Synthetic Covered Stairway Leading to a Metro-North Station, Bound Hand and Foot by Hairless Homeland Security Officials, I Saw You Step Into A Train Headed Towards the West. I Wanted to Smile at You, but an Overzealous Militiaman Slipped a Black Hood Over my Head and Carried Me Off to a Big Black Town Car with Tinted Windows, Stopping at Dunkin’ Doughnuts on the Way to Set Fire to the Woods Where We Lived

          —a transcontemporation of J.V. Foix

 

So I closed my eyes and imagined you staring down at this world from the platform, a constellation of cigarette butts and Starbucks cups between the railroad ties, and a torn flayed flower petal rising from the tar and sliver comes right at you like a schizophrenic snowflake, but just then I feel the stick thrust into my stomach, bursting my beautiful cartoon bubble. Though I can’t see it, I know your fingertip will be wet from writing words on the windowpane. I can’t reach you. Light, defined as degrees of darkness. They have confiscated my luggage and my voice. I smell gasoline and your name traveling west. Before they burn our past, neatly stacked in piles like dead leaves, they rifle through a few old photographs where your image has become what looks like a cross of light, so they ask me my religion. Seemingly impressed by my taste in gods, they untie me. There on the floor are our passports, bloody and torn, not to mention the shape our hearts are in.

 



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