breach the pattern

breach the pattern

 

internal effect

waits,

on gravel

 

wild chamomile is a weed

in the road, don’t

eat it,

it is tainted.

 

in each direction, the distance

misleads—The road

never narrows to a point.

Convergence

continues,

out of reach.

 

faces in vehicles–

barely a face–

zoom past, a moment

of round recognition

 

the high

speed mirror

carries part of my face

out of reach.

 

in defiance,

I carry in my palm

the answer to an unasked

question

 

 

 

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