This time, it’s the dunes, not the plains,
my quasi-desert:
pine trees and shrubs over
– pale, yellowish-brown – sand;
it’s a thin veil of clouds, not the dust
that shrouds the skies in haze.
The road looks flat
but I keep slowing and slowing
until I’m moving in a frozen frame,
fleeing winter,
as if I could ever outrun
my loss.
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