I have a legend with the road.

A connection with dust from

parking lots and narrow alleys.  I know

something about flat tires and vacant

store fronts where change and loss hold

onto empty.  Faraway places never

consider these places.  A suffering evening

sky labors at placing stars into night.

Mountain shadows, appearing like

sleeping giants, guard the passage to

the north.  Warm random breezes brush

over vacant gas pumps and roadside

tables.  Darkness has no fear of evil as

night nurses the anger out of day.



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