UPON READING ALL OF CHRIS OFFUTT'S BOOKS
I get it real bad.
Thirst for whiskey, stranger's blood.
I want to carry a gun
tucked into my belt.
But I'm just a wannabe.
Sensate life in green;
skin and breath, warmth and coolness.
Sore hands, tired eyes.
Home never lasts there,
but here it lingers, vivid
and bright, yet still gone.
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