Maybe when you get to oblivion,
the car lights sweeping the motel room walls,
you'll never know who you are again
or what you've done or what's been done to you.
You'll have maybe forty dollars,
maybe a road map of Vermont,
only an inkling of what you're escaping,
what you're trying to find and what's calling you back,
what you've stolen and what you must return.
Hello frozen river.
I like your lipstick.
Hello big gray coat.
Can't talk now.

elegy on toy piano - dean young
pitt.edu/~press 0822958724
from Ghost Gash p9

books of int ~buy:
elegy on toy piano -pittsburgh
the children's hospital -mcsweeneys
she may not leave -atlantic