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Charles Jensen

They tax your body a surcharge
for each state line you pass through:
your body accrues debt.

You are now
the joining of the only two certainties we know
in life: death and taxes.

The long, cool casket
slips into the plane like a bullet for its magazine:
fully loaded, I expect it must

Your hair grows. The plane taxis and bolts off.
The shadow you both cast will not change shape
despite your nearness to the sun.

Today I found a scrap of paper
where you'd scrawled your name.

I hate the world for its
traces of you.

Don't write me again.

Charles Jensen

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