I Don’t Know

I don’t remember the sunrise
or the name of those blue-black birds,
I don’t remember you
or me,
or what road we just passed
or where it goes –
I don’t know if I’ve been down it,
maybe,
maybe not,
there’s a certain innocence in forgetting –
when the justified man with the slick-chrome
pistol presses it snug to my head
I won’t know why,
I won’t know why,
blameless me,
the victim at last.

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