I don’t want to get that far, only to where
I can see it above the horizon, like a city
hanging in warped air by its roots.
The humor you hate has survived by simple
insistence the night’s blizzard of miles.
It will be lost there; you swear you will be, too.
Let’s let an illusory curb float alongside us
so you can try it: hop out, curse me goodbye;
then we can veer back to the truth
where the thought of arrival for me prints
a yellowing ring in the grass
and for you paints a white line you can follow.
I can’t make for catastrophe with such a vagabond song.
Look, the billboards predict the best is coming.
Let’s let it keep coming.
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