Some orange lights never stop flashing
and yield signs form flesh markers
inside of New England's tilting womb.
Rock formations and bottle rockets,
cans of cloudwater bubbling for
the clay and bugbite of
That same orange in faces
and humility over heavy plastic
smoke rings; Ruins and characters
trapped between the hum of dead crickets.
Hours lived in disgust of clocks
and everything else which time
may cling to.
Not even the sun,
mumbling through your hair,
can hold an instant
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