recede like the mountain
in the rear-view mirror
the future stretches out
hazy and tract-less
like the sere fields
through the frost on the windshield
I wonder which fields you see
over the steering-wheel?
I'll not grieve over ruins
there are armies marching on the sidewalk
states rise and are lost
behind the windows of the apartments
over the storefronts
your headlights glow like a torch
cities burn all along the freeways
--they build cathedrals
between each sip of coffee
--will rather rejoice
that the streets are wild
with histories
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