eight thousand
six hundred
and seven
thoughts crossed a lost
wanderer
sauntering soul, slow
eyes high, shoulders low
Who was the last to know?

He comes, he comes
He goes, he goes

she burned off her hair
chopped her ribbons and bows
turned in her shoes
for dirty bare knuckled toes

she showed him the future
of sticky fire-tarred roads, tolling
soles scalding
suitcase in hand on a highway of ash

gave him the last
of the baggage they’d packed

and with the crooked division
of a traveler’s math
sliced the half-sharpened smile

said she’s not coming back

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