By | 2 February 2001

In bitumen the heat has a symbol.
the road resists crossing, corneas
and the sun combing the intersection
for glints like a dark bird. the sun has
extracted every black, this quarter
is tropical suburban, every corner
has a petrol station and a psalm.

The black page in exactly the middle
of the book is where we arrived late
at noon with even less determination
when even earth walls couldn’t have
prepared us for the hot blood shock
pasted to the surface like poster
prematurely advertising the very end
of a process that is random anyway.

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