"silver plume, colorado"
a glass on the oak table is filled
with dry whiskey. i move like a ghost
through this house, through these
walls.
i could've loved you.
if we could see ourselves in the blowing
dust, would our cheeks become rosy?
miners clutch shovels and
hammers. we have given so much,
so much blood, we should be kings.
from the doorway,
i heard you whisper
words
into the corners of the room.
i told you, "this will be the year that
kills us all."
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