one cirrus cloud
refracting pink & green, west;
who’ll tell its story when
I’m no longer here?
you will; but it’s already
been absorbed in
that gray cloud using the
sun for a headlight—
so many raindrops fleck
the mirror glass, &
one bullet hole & my
walking reflection—
so much traffic along the
boulevard’s slant,
& I alone am
escaped to tell the tale
Jack Hayes
© 2017
© 2017
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