i picture you

i picture you leaving
your coat on the hood.
wallet and keys.
the crisp envelope. 

we all know what it’s like
to imagine the thing—
how glaring
and suddenly close 

the tools are
if you need them:
a stoplight, a prescription.
a few feet of rope.

or that joke of a pistol
you chose at the pawnshop
and loaded, and unloaded,
and cleaned,

then tucked in your belt,
like when you were seven,
as you crossed
a hayfield by the road,

where a sudden breeze lifted
the endless gray finches
and lit the bright
backs of the leaves—

your face the stunned face
of a prisoner then,
at the gateway
through which it’s released.

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