I am almost gone from here, if only
I could go a bit further…the cars on
the road coast in the rain, each one
slip into their exit holes
in my brain, but the pain doesn’t hurt;
it rides; it blurs
the stop signs. Like every tin war,
rain’s a lie; it’s only grains of doggerel, you see…
you think you see through. It’s too much
of everywhere to get through,
I’m still the king of Spain.

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