There is nothing left of the morning.
I drive away.
My breath fills a jar.
Will it just be
Mist when things come apart,
And I disappear
Into midday,
Into the uninhabitable road
And its black salt islands,
The white tail of the river?
I crush the pedal
Towards limestone.
I wish I could open my eyes,
See it all as it washes away,
Wait for the sun to talk
Me through it, reveal even
The beauty of stones in a field.

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