That blank sky. Day,
but not an inch more.
A strata of birds
wind through
the building cranes’ poles,
seagulls high, crows,
lower. Now coffee
and packing. The highway
is a cure in that it demands
forward movement–
bird or car, a stall
is failed flight. Such guilty
solace, to take
to the Interstate,
alone, to burn miles
like effigies,
dividing a landscape
into present, and past–
OPTIONAL POETRY 
“…to burn miles like effigies…” Pure brilliance.
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Thanks!
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I never get bored of your poems.
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Thank you, Tiegan!
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your poems pluck that string in my heart that rarely gets plucked elsewhere. grateful that i get to read them. 🙂
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That is really great compliment, Shellie, thank you! I am grateful that you chose to read them ! 🙂
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Surprise me one day and write something that is not delightfully and heartachingly surprising. Willya?
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