Fugue
what is lost is found again and again in the blighted ravines of the midnight memory, headlights streaming over high desert horizons, two beams into the endless dark as you slide and scramble down into that pit by the highway subconscious, looking for those needles and pins in the dirt and the dark, begging for pain, fingers scrounging dry rock until they bleed, and in the most desperate epoch your fingers touch what you once cast away with such hate—a relief, your heart; but no desert can evade the rains forever; you will hardscrabble down that same darkness one day, one future; all that is found will be lost again and again in the blighted ravines of that midnight memory
James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Beyond the Wounded Horizon, Nights Without Rain, and We Are All Terminal But This Exit Is Mine, among other books of poetry and fiction. He currently resides in upstate New York and reviews indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.
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