Boulevards
rush
toward polluted destiny
Soaringbeyond
my reachI'm left with potholes half filled with
light rain and oil leakswhose silver pools refelect everything
I could
ever
hope
to knowwhere images hover, sometimes scatter
with passing volition
fashioning lucid incantations for the windows
through to gazedreaming of being more clear and
sinking intosweet,
murky
reverie
