The book

Today I rode down
between birds calling and the yet unmelted snow
in dirty arches
over busy ditches
arcing sludge droplet tangents as
tyres waltzed around the shit and standing water
to where they empty their ashtrays out of car windows
on days when hope seems infantile
those deliberate monuments –
mattress, microwave, monitor and beer cans,
the endless waste of babies

There, beside the gaudy discards of those
best unmet,
spine upright as though in defiance
a burnt black book
blistered at the cover
fanned leaves fire shred edged
a smoulder of sentences risen and freed from stops

Lost of all meaning
except at that eyed moment, when it seemed
reason gave in to
the flamed despair of immolation

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