"Sweeping up glass from my car that was stolen, on a dark overcast day the day before i go on vacation"
This spot might have been Dallas.
By the sparseness of its green.
That dusty churning has left
No enduring enigma.
Once a pilgrim tarried here
And carved her many a poem.
Poem upon poem, till the mass
Towered like sable coral...
The travail is long, lonely;
And ragged his fedora.
If for a moment he rests,
It is not to ask the way.
Through this glad abandonment
A wind gives north to the flesh.
"the internet is straight up not interesting anymore as either a fictional subject or a modality by which fiction is produced sorry" —@katewagner.wehwalt.net
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