Paris 654 miles

Like a curious game of

poke

her, no one looks at 

you and everyone 

sees: but do they look

or just brook

no disagree-

me[a]-

n[o]t?

For they know 

the goal and you, who

occupy some

driving seat 

of sorts, have

no idea of the

horsepower nor the

vehicle nor the

direction nor the 

destination nor the

fate (and how strange

that fate shares

so many letters 

with late).

And you’re even 

uncl-

air-

e if licence you have –

not to kill but to

simply spill the 

beens and dones, and the

gones and comes.

So blindly you march 

on, con-

fused and hurting, or

maybe that’s worthing 

some-

thing unearthly that might 

planet your rock 

even as your fusion 

con-

strains your ability

to carry on,

anyhow.

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