Miles On Trumpet

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The worn-out wind pulls the road, heavy
two soles stuck on cold cement sheets —
look up, look up, the lines, the lines:
black veins point toward the evening sky.

He decodes the morse. Nothing
usual, the lights hum discreetly
within punctured plains, exhale —
look down, look down, the holes, the holes:
black pores of the street’s skin.

Softly he deciphers the sky, sundown 
sailing over cloudy ocean. Roll the stones.

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