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Wrappers crinkle in the wind as the grass bellows,
paper cups collect dirt with sticky-sickly browning yellows;
and the cars slowly weave toward the shoulder
to get a closer look at the fallen, podlike boulder
flung in the garden near the bridge:

The accident crashed near their somnolent hill,
a dream of cratered slabs stabbing the sloping air;
and it clings to the brown grass (trying to green) where
it looks downward to the river valley, dead still
as the interstate lacerates.

Deaf to self as the radio blared hit songs,
so we behind must slow to learn and slowly march pastó
or else (like them) in ignorance our fate resides and longs
for the knowledge of hindsight, an eye to see
the accident of the receding commute.

Speeding by the rest stop detour we feel
how the shots of concrete smoothly work to pacify,
and how it could imbibe the soberest of liars
to have false visions in the sunset's colors, dreams lauding
the tenderness of eventide.

Beyond the scene the hill and garden coalesce into fields,
each grass blade waving in the liquid speed of seventy-five
and fruitful acre cresting to barren trough,
all the while subservient to the graying road, stealing
the complement of twilight.


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The following comments are for "The Ignorant Dead"
by macman202





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