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Rooftops
You. And undeniable rains
fill this water balloon, this heart.
I know I shouldn't invade your car,
Watch you. And want
to give you a sandcastle of stone,
rest for cranes beside gargoyles,
"Got Paint?" graffiti and belief
that you could drive that soiled white Nova
without a cigarette
and end the endless orbit
of nails in shimmering pink frost lacquer
circling from the frayed steering wheel cover
to your smeared lips.
Next to you, your husband sleeps
another 47 years
awakened neither by the silent
thrust of housing developments
or the decay of patched camper roofs,
their tarps and shingles.
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