Wheat stubble glistens in the morning mist

as I round the S-curve

snaky, winding trails of asphalt

and the cars halt

just beyond the crossroads

commuter trains belch horns that signal


as the faces imprisoned behind

pale plexiglass panes

mutely and blindly

greet the divisiveness of

the mourning

faces buried in newspapers

ears plugged into MP3 players

sensory shutdown as solipsism streams

in “real-time”

while the unreal

stands motionless

bedecked with the harbingers of autumn’s imminence

a silent testament

to the irrelevant a.m. game of

beat the


beat the


I would fain traipse into the trees

but the red light prevents me

(b r a k e)


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