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Trouble comes with the freight
train’s one light passing over

the bridge through your back yard.
Your brother-in-law holds a banjo

and wanders through a few runs
before you see him becoming

something he hadn't considered
with the fifth string missing.

You don't think of being alone
but the mountains do it for you

—the flatlands without service
or station, augured soil rolling out

before the fog. You throw the rotten
plywood off the roof and stare out

into a lake bordered by houses
without insulation or anyone

except the laborers who laugh
and plan to work until they die.


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