syllable wilderness

Game,
set,
match.

Retroactive traction fastens
itself in for the long ride home,
a pile of bones in
rear view,
sights and sounds that
mirror passed long
ago.

If the world hasn’t collapsed
between the times I look back
at winding roads

I’ll keep driving into
the wilds,
around cities and silos I have
never visited, conditioned to
avoid their
smokestacks and
iron cast histories.

This was not the trip I have
been envisioning,
but the only map glove
compartments held.

Countryside tells us volumes,
a restoration city
life never sells, for it’s still
aloof as you and I.

Through the night,
no passenger.

Ghosts haunting
heaters and FM waves,
chasing hopeless ever afters into sleepy shoulders.

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