Sunday, July 1, 2007

one-fifty-two (pacheco pass)

these are only words
that brush the face
of the wildgrass

    like rippling waves
    of wind
    and shadow

no different from the road
racing past the picture-
book hillsides

no different from all that
passes for memory

    the radio lets go its grasp
    of the fm broadcast
    just as i let go my grasp
    of this world

    there is a good chance
    none of these words ever
    existed

funny the car clings
stubbornly to the road

Posted by judah in:  Verse & Prose   

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