Every Day,
A Century

The Valley

Who broke for the trees at the first red-and-blue sign of trouble? Who half-suggested, bottle in hand and cops on the trail, that we could just leave you for dead? Who was nuts enough to think that drinking at an abandoned prison was poetic? Who was still giggling at the way you had pronounced "forty" like you were a character from a bad novel? We came looking for you the next morning and there you were in repose underneath the brush. In the car you seemed alright! We saw the heat lightning, counting out one, two, three, four, mile, thunder.

Chris Clayman


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