Roads are scars between mountains;

oaths for angels without wings.

Strangers welcome the curves with shadows

and the gray of dusks coverings.


Gas stations close at six. Stay in the car

with the windows rolled up. Hitchhikers

have no place to go. There’s a riddle

between each town hidden under a rock.


Headlights fill the corners with a double

eyed beam passing over those hiding and

unusual animals waiting for the perfect moment

to cross the road.


Cigarettes and gasoline is the perfect perfume

for a late night drive while racing trains

in through valley.


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