Western
the poem
tugs the brim of his hat down,
spits into the dirt,
starts down toward where i’m standing.
as always he’s alone, anonymous,
unshaven, dust-riddled,
equal parts death and tenderness,
never sure himself about which comes next.
outlaws taught me
everything i know, but i pin the star
onto my vest and step into the street.
i feel my arm tighten.
Dark Matter 
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