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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