bismarck, dakota

Running on flat tyres,
late
a metaphor on

four wheels.
a slow puncture a slow hour a slow century
moving.

The steamed up glass
and the buildings that we pass,
are stationary.

Like brick mausoleums,
catacombs where
we live

in smokestacks where
death mask images appear on
dry rot wallpaper.

Asbestos interiors
the roof of your life
leaks

drip by drip,
a steady constant.

And we raise our arms to the
sky like converts lost in pray.

Waiting to be taken away.

But we are dis tuned, a
crackling white noise

backdrop of static

Stuck in a terminal
watching
planes angle themselves to the sky.

Above the soil, below the clouds,
somewhere in between
they fly along invisible lines

plotted on machines in Bismark, Dakota

 

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