It was
It was raining Saturday night
and we drove to a parking lot
where mud filled squares of yards
where a building used to stand
beyond the puddled asphalt
we walked squish slide soft
between drops to the dirt lot
left our clothes in the scrubby grass
on the chipped white posts at the edge of the dirt
and raided the dirt with grasping hands as we
killed those memories left and right
felled them like trees in the raindrops
holes in the pounded dirt and you in the wounded me
smell of ozone and long gone and something
like smoke
It was raining Saturday night
and you drove to a place
I could not reach
where grass bowed under the streams
where a small stone stands
you walked slip slosh fast
between rows of friends
left your roses in the scrubby grass
on the chipped white marble at the edge of the dirt
and knelt in the dirt with grasping hands as you
relived those memories wrong and right
felt them like the tin of a rooftop, thrumming alive
holes in the fresh soil and you in the reaching past
remembering the smell of ozone and done wrong and
something
like sin
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