On his way to work, long
impenetrable crusts
cover the earth, which crews
patch as soon as they crack.
He peeks before changing
lanes in the side rearview,
sees the sun rise, and then
looking forward, mistakes
The horizon and light
for one. For a moment,
two suns, ahead and behind.
For a moment, still time.
But soon he spots drivers
in the far lanes across
medians of iron,
weeds and degrees, headed
Towards their rising. For them,
a clear, prosperous day.
For him, and those like him,
there’s no sun ahead, none.
On the return trek, still
into opposites, to
barefoot women, angry
kin, confused boys with lines
etched in pulp round their eyes,
he blends in with the sky
and the rising night, these
indistinguishable trees.
–
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