The Tension of Progress

With fast feet,
the world goes by

It wouldn’t even
matter which street
the sun had so yellowed
the sky

I’m coasting through
stop signs and you’re
close behind

We are a smear against
the charred churches,
knotty wood in
abandoned windows,
fifteen-foot
sunflowers in a vacant
lot

Thank god
for the impartiality of light

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