Through the Scars of the Land

in Osceola County, the sky drips
under a fake wooden frame,
the moss tangles the trees and whitens
itself into the question—
what left is worth protecting?

Even plastic bags wilt
as the driver paves the road
with bravado. He believes
himself the wind, the prey rather
than the predator. His fingers mock
David’s slingshot, tied with
each stitch of the gospel

on every crumbled street corner,
old peach ring bags used
indiscriminately for crystals, whatever
necessary to drown the tick

of the clock–here are the paths
we took before cars,
now only pit-stop museums where we thank
ourselves for modernity and its cling

wrap. His job is done here. He leaves
it trenched in dehydrated grass
and abandoned car hoods. Rubber tears
in the clay road, the sole remnant of good
will as tin cans and arson
lie speechless in the rubble.


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