The road flares burning where the truck swerved off
Just before midnight show the streaks in gravel
And banged-up tailgate slanted in its trough.
Those passing—weary, wondering—slow their travel
On sight of massed police and long enough
To see provisioned brilliance unravel
In such vast darkness as to mask the face
Of one who sobs in some unwonted place.
—James Matthew Wilson
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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