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Curved;
the darkness dome of
nighttime falling
across America's
night-driving highways.
The collapsing of the
sun into the welcoming
horizon's grip
each day.
Each day.

Renewal of our dreamer-wishes
in the speeding desert winds
across the sand-shrouded
foothills in the western depths.
Dipping our hands into
the chilling basin of sky
and stars, rearranging constellations
further towards
the end of our continental
drifting bodies.

Our cosmic pieces,
we are picture-puzzle bits
in this woven
but shifting mass of
light grids and exit signs
cutting across the
faces of mountains.

Our faces pressed
by the zephyrs
and our feet in continuous
motion across the dark
landmass of our homely
desires. The pebbles in the road
quake with anticipation
of this oncoming traffic
as we flow
across the solar system's
life-bearing sphere
toward the edge of
our existence.

To the western-most point
along a lusting bay
kissing close to the sands.
Until our hands,
thrown up in jubilation
of a journey,
may find holds in the
sea, may
grasp with furtive flailing
to the deepest night
over an ocean
we have found

bordering the end of
all that was here.
In a quick pulsing thump
of our impatiently
trembling fingers
we may touch the ceiling dome
capping off this world
from the distant floating of
space.





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