for the walls they turned them on end
out over their axis the old globes spun
when you were left there with the other bodies
and the angle on the camera
facial recog fade
no amount of etching on your grave
was enough
everywhere a misdiagnosis
not one single doubt
for the roads they abandoned all their cars
under above their shoulders the fields of rot
where you were left with all the evidence planted
in your lap divided
manufactured gestures wrapped about
the intestines of the prairie falls
a blue light at the end of it all encircles
the verifiable prophets of confirmation.
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