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.
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.
Love this!
Thanks.