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Roger Singer

The brashness of a 
gray afternoon curses
at roadside bars, 
all night diners 
and clotheslines 
sagging roadmaps. 

Mud flaps proselytize 
to the lost while
angels search for 
the abandoned; 
neon lights 
the lonely
from corners. 

In the distance, a city.  
A breath spread wide of
buildings and faces, 
where evil drains
into collars and
sweat is salted 
by the ravaging 
of circling crows.    

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