by Paul Hostovsky
It’s easy to love them,
the shapes of those lives,
the little huddled triangles
holding each other up
on the way into the city,
or the ones in the country
leaning only on themselves
and a silo, head in an elbow
on a hill. How beautiful
the detached view, how forgivable
all the little murders, driving by at 70,
looking into the lowered eyes of those dark houses.
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