Hellhole Winter

Roadside graveyards are feeling
the sound of my walking past
those dead ponies feeding worms.

Road, how it winds
directionless in the sunlight
hitting just the tops
of the beercans.
I walk past faded headstones,
past roadhouse shells,
inbred folk & their early coffee.

Christ, it is chilly
this morning, this noon, this evening.
Everyday the words across the cans look at me
like they are scripture
and I am scriptless
on my measly way beyond
what I am seeing
in front of me-

That jagged edge of ice I mistook
for one fearless rabbit's ear.


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