Sunday, August 17, 2008

sole entrant

The town where I was grown
cultivated the inert, and tourists.
Away, a word used in prayer.

Sick of hills thicketed with spires,
the poor, I was full-throttle toward gone.
Fastest out was the prize I tore ass

to win, to leave the stifled rest
to choke in my wake, an alarming roar
no one must’ve heard under the rain

the cheerless day I first parted my own air.

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