Brian and I walking down Lower Unionville Road.
Where the road bends, night falls
like a guillotine and our heads go rolling
down toward better reception.
I write simple letters to Grandpa Allen
in New Mexico, saying
I'm doing well in school and playing tennis,
but in secret I'm writing
an indecipherable manuscript about a boy
who almost dies cliff-diving
and decides to abandon his humdrum routine
of stifling schooldays and lonely afternoons
to chase an unattainable poetic existence.
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