Bounding Signals
The radio tower's rustwater shimmer,
salty spraying kiss-written shades
upon pale evening air,
gives the off-colour comment of
middle age's sagging bones, the sense
that everything that will happen
has. I turn about, cocooned in half-fine
slumbers, misplacing the wakeful howls
of blackened asphalt rubber somewhere
in a snow-locked fantasy.
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