Road Trip

In the night the wind
Shines moonlit movement through
Heavy-headed ocean grasses
Which wanting to sleep are
Possessed to whip in unison
With each root mate making
Black shadows to scratch softly at the concrete wall

A man ages backwards in reverse,
Swiftly cycling the Freon air
With smoke through his lungs
Each exhalation: fear, the little death.
Soon again, the car, the interstate
And the cracked window, windshield
Dirtier with each mile marker

He launches burning paper
Airplane messages into the skies
Sparkling black with shadow, soot, and ash
He has a few more miles to go he thinks
Flicking his spent cigarette with a smooth
Fleshed and soft old hand into the waving
Grasses which are, after all, just weeds

 

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