The winter is a season of death
that time to contemplate things that have ended
whether sloppy or neat
some things in the winter END
others are just buried by snow
sometimes to run from people in our lives
I've run from places
for me
and this may not be true for you
places hold a special hell
a spiritual energy that cannot be forgotten
nor damned by the flood of a thousand brick facades
one million softly lit coffee shops
cannot exercise the scars begotten in childhood
and better left forgotten
tied with ribbon and bow
and regifted to a generation far distant from here
vis a vie the richly saturated superfund site
sitting in the soil
an agony that would kill us
should we return
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