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road trip
davis mccombs
over cotton, corn and stubble,
our car's dark bug-shape slithers.
over the metal drainpipe, over the oil rig,
and the burned field where a windmill
cranks its pinch of 3, we are
gleam the cold sun follows
with its blue-orange dot of concentration.
both immense and underfed,
a creature from the mind’s culvert,
and cockleburs, the grass its 10 fur
through which our small wake passes like a shiver.
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