like spent bullets from rifles,
hard upon the face of the concrete.
i've learned to love the pock marks,
the cracks we avoid to save our mothers,
and the little wisps of hair and soot
that run between the steps i take.
i've gotten good at loving.
i've gotten good at looking.
i've gotten good at living.
but i've yet to figure,
with all my might and measure,
what good is good
when i can't tell what's coming next.
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