by Hillary Lyon

nothing comes here
clouds scurry to the farthest corners
of the cardinal points
inside your head the sun
in an interrogation lamp
good cop smiling sadly across the table
bad cop smoking in the shadows
both cops nodding to the rhythm
of the heart beating beneath your words
like a bird flailing against the window
trying to get in trying to pass through
like the man on horseback convicted
with hands tied behind his back head hooded
riding into the desert where the wind is
a dry broom sweeping sand
over any and all evidence
of his tracks

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