93.
the smell of dead things
at the desk where i write
banded shadows in the school zone
tick off the stations of this voyage
above me that abstract & unreal
nation unravels
& the roads crumble
into not-roads
& we will still use the name
long after anyone can tell
& what we are living through now
may by then be called
syllables
that fall amidst our speech unbeknownst
i speak them
to myself silently
as the sun comes up
over the highway bridge so full
of commuters

Labels: spaceshiptopluto