White Lines Blacktop

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When I’m kill; when I’m rape

When I’m truncocolumella citrina

on the ground under dead horses

I drive my car; yes, a granted

luxury, and pull slowly onto a

shopping mall parking lot black

The spaces are tight, car-walled

cubbyholes; soft-hard fear compressors

of the ugly-hard not-parking-lot world

My head body and mind are held

in this clump-unit of private cars

And like an autistic child focused

I’m temporarily released; safe

from the jaws of the world

out there.

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