Drives
Nightly wanderings
stop lights, barriers
villages where houses warm the bones and out along the edge of the yard creeps the drives.
They know spinning
like water. They know bread
crumbs like air and smell the
rubber layer thinly spread
on the road of the curve
where the houses look like hell repeated
infinite turns and grids. I've seen it concentrated
on the patriot lines running down the main street of
a harbor town and I
cried for the residents.
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