the turning point is ahead
but maybe we passed it going 80 mph
on a stretch of empty interstate
with the wind’s whistling chill
somewhere in rural Indiana
we hold on with white knuckles
life clutches us by the throat
pins us down in abandoned corners
forces us to beg for clemency
but we don’t know how to pray
it isn’t the picture we drew
house on the hill in red twilight autumn
we carefully hang our pressed clothes
in the back of the closet
losing hope of resurrection
© 2011 heather brager
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