Driving

under drying skies, north,
passing fields
the summer has been too wet
to turn brown,
i wait for God
to appear, for poems to rise
like mists, for some sort
of ever

that doesn’t sting.
croon to me like a wild road,
sunlight spider-webbing
across a cracked windshield
across strange arms
across a morning we can all afford
to spend and live
and live.

8 thoughts on “Driving

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