[29 August 2019]
The miles drag on. I wear a rut
14 months thick in the space between
two railway ties. I count the distance,
measuring it in bygones and forgones, considering
all things as nothing except that they might be
more than I initially suspected, making mud
from dirt and saliva, and serving up
my eyes on a silver platter, the dust of
towns and cities and countries and things I once believed clinging
to my loafers, the modern-day sandals of a metrosexual,
homosexual apostle not so far from home in any way
except for in his mind.
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