There is no shape that the words carve out to match the roar I anticipate in waiting to hear A city a man no more a wilderness of men and (women) a structure structure-less sought where it isn't mown The only garden a Dunkin Donuts never closed always clean the young girl behind the counter who smiles and speaks in a language I cannot understand (and still the women's bathroom is out of order - something is amiss in paradise) Against the grass uncut as mist falls bending light over wrappers and cans round beneath the rusted bridge where a man hangs by a cable There too i think i have an idea for a poem something to get this voice of the moment to put it down to map it out when the reality is maps litter the backseat taken from the center where the man speaks a history that turns in and over itself wrapping me by in squares lines and names that do or don't There's no way out of this place but living in a roar of fevered streets alive in the light alive in the dark where there never was a poem to begin with Only a winding NJ turnpike scattered with ridiculous $0.35 tolls
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