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February 15, 2012
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  >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Action/Adventure >> ID #467465  |   Show DetailsPrinter Friendly Page Tell A Friend
Prehistory
Three times he tried to run us down with his pickup truck on I-94.
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Prehistory

Not counting the times
I made the road my brother,
I loved so little those years
Warmly,

Content to trade
my love
For talk
and smiles.

And the last time
Spent in darkness
Was enough to crash
All dreams:

The babbling trucks
Kept calling me
To die
In North Dakota.

What saved me then
Was His own voice
Calling out my name
In forms.
© Copyright 2002 Eliot (UN: eliot_a at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Eliot has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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