November 6

comments 7
Uncategorized

That blank sky. Day,
but not an inch more.

A strata of birds
wind through

the building cranes’ poles,
seagulls high, crows,

lower.  Now coffee
and packing. The highway

is a cure in that it demands
forward movement–

bird or car, a stall
is failed flight. Such guilty

solace, to take
to the Interstate,

alone, to burn miles
like effigies,

dividing a landscape
into present, and past–

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