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 His name has been ghosted over the fence,
leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes.
I'm half the man, he says, not my sentence, waiting on time that other people chose.
From their windows men sing out numbers, names, hands to the grille light for the come-back call, but words get lost, change allegiance, and blame's out of their mouths, love's over the wall.
Later when I phone home and catch your voice I think of slipping out to wind and rain, to burning winter lights, and city noise, to waiting on the platform for the train, the slow bus climbing toward our terrace house, and in that space, to reach you, say your name.

by Chris Jones
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