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Poetry | >> |
| On The Road to Beartooth Lake My thoughts are deep as coffee cups and the fogged breath of cedar swamp looks still at any speed as the march of the traffic barrel vigil hold orange candles under clouds of blue iron shadows and ignore green exit 249 as the black city under yellow lines leaves me with a feel that it moves past me, not me past it while I breath the diesel from the truck stop I can smell, but know I will not find as I look for a place to rest the grey Chevy. -Alastair Llewellyn Drong- |