It’s a legend of moving,

heels of travelers, train soot

or bus grease. There’s a road for

everyone; a language of sound

without hurrying.


Slapping screen doors, caffeine

and gas, diesel smoke and fast down

gears; dirty fingers with a chance to go.


Clock watchers without soul have

no song; it’s a fail of desire,

coffee without cream.


River roads and canyon carving.

Winds with snow on my tail;

cemeteries hold an earth of dreams.


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