Pathetic Pathetic FallacyPatty Seyburn
A ceremony of fog: no rolling, please. (Swilling preferred.) (Such baroque volutes.) Traffic lolls. The pollution of neon drowns the nursery in cool blue. Highbeams breach the haze, carve the night into angle; staccato lines maintain the sanctity of the lane. Polls confirm the illusion of solitude. The engine writes a eulogy. When will the sky quit falling? (That’s our motto.) It lands in phrases while rain embosses the road and all I think about, these days, mostly between dusk and dawn and dusk (though not exclusively) are conjugations of gone (going, going) and loss.
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