slowly highways teach me to gnaw years off their concrete,


from the worn bumper stickers and yellowed life


lines, about fifteen feet above, watching over exit forty-five,


there's a pack of  brillant dandelions taunting human hands,


smugly taking back the earth but a few towns back I think


we bumped over someone else's filleted road kill, before that a half full


milk jug of piss, so please know that I'm not in awe of the beauty


I've passed through. sure, there's no glitter in the hills just eyes


on unattainable gold petals and a mind on a decision I almost took


at sixteen, the same one my mom left with when I was 13


and had only passed the word "suicide" a handful of times.


now it sees me on interstate dandelions, growing


oblivous to all that road speed through and crossed


and I might not ever know how to thank a weed. but


I've heard this path used to be all earth and avalanche so,


I hope, when I’m finally gone, after a long, long time


here, the earth will eat itself





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