by Felix Jung

I push down, and the needle jumps to eighty-
five. The cars I pass fall back as quickly
as the farms, the browning fields of wheat

that push their arms towards the sun. There is
a vacant sky above, the crisp air howling through
my window. Along the roadside, I see the discarded,

rubber skins of tires, these giant pythons curled
into themselves, contented in their motionlessness,
basking in the thin and white October sunlight.

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