there is
a grainy zapruder quality
in stuttering
black and white
that plays
when ever she crosses
the back roads
of my mind
a cloud of dust
her dainty toes step
the strands of dna
the frozen instant
she walked away

back and to the left
my head snapped
back and to the left
as she pierced my skull
with the shrapnel
of love gone sour
after too long
in the convertible cadillac
sitting forgotten
in a field of fantasy
her look of disdain
fired unerringly
from the book depository
filled with odes
to endless affection

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