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In a car, in the salt
flats of Utah, in us

I’m on my shoulder.
Hope is a thing with
force between us.

When you come home,
wonder on your face,
I, underwater, will.

I drift where
your voice begins,
miss the dream 

between this and the last. 
What virulence imagines
there in the thicket

that guards your face,
that vacancy at the center
of the face, the mouth,

spills ungodly narrative.
Enough to wake me up?