Salt

This entry is part 50 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

The highway’s tar
has been bleached by
a winter’s worth of salt,

and in the mid-day sun
it almost shines. I squint
at the shapes on the shoulder—

here the humped corpse
of some salt-lover, there
a fetal curl of flayed tire.

Series Navigation← The death of winterHarbingers →
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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave's writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the "share alike" provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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