The tin shack paradise of strewn bowels and innards, copper coins in the mouth. A dead pack horse in the pasture, greasy black buzzards having a feast. The body of a child dead in a roadside ravine in another country. Venezuela, maybe.
My window has a rusted gulch of dreams and heartache, sad elms and a cardinal flying and without warning dropping in a perfect arc like a drop of blood.
I think if imaginary people die, they die. You exist to someone, you always did.