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Mapping Lost Continents


The gravel submits to my wheels

like a chain gang might, these

nubs of rock, the stone fruit

of a pillaged landscape.


Behind a bottle store, a string

of broken men simmer, screw

top wine in paper bag botas,

bad mouthin’ everything


but times back when. Dreams

salt-tamped by the bursting sorrow

of hobbled circumstance. Thistle,

nightshade and hogweed scurrying


over the hump of the past, over

the loblolly suckers and rust

buckets, tendrils creeping

through the trash. The cracked ribs


of weathered fences unsteady against

tar papered sheds. The serrated shade

of whipped trees claimed by lost dogs.

Along the riddled seams


of untended buildings a riot of insects

loots the abundance. My rig shudders

over the ruts, the rocks breaking like hearts

ripped from a sacrificial earth.

Published in subTerrain Magazine

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