She came around the corner
to see body-sized mounds of rags and debris.
They could have been the warm torsos and arms
of the dead, wrapped in plastic and cloth,
that she wasn't supposed to see
at the age of eleven or twelve.
Or twenty-five.
But they weren't.
No, they were not.
They were everything and nothing.
Like the brown paper bag
that caresses the curb under unseen stars.
Or the weeping un-heartbeat
of the car's turning signal.
Its melodic sobs asynchronous
with any other's.
Signal, it is.
To listen.
The drive home is silent but for the city.
A moth's wing and a wet nose greet her at the door.
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