Rondo: Dying World


Deeper into the country, at some point
after we cross the state line, the roads
narrow and wind. Deeper still where towns
fall away, where we can no longer see
the radars of the last station; where
there are no more rest stops with vending
machines, where our phones do not pick up
signals from the towers— there, among
the grass and wildflowers, where wind
or the river carry the only voices
capable of truly unsettling.

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