Gravity n' Debris

perhaps each face-
the perfect

is formed with the debris
gravity’s beamed down
from outer rings
of space,

now the highway eyes are revvin’
like they’ve been lured
into another fixed
drag race,

and now it’s too dark here to
make out the X crossing
route’s relic map,

we chased those vapor trail to
promised pleasure n’
sure collapse,

and perhaps each
perfect face is just some
well intended dust

“nah, doubt it’s that”

calmly purrs some
kitty coiled up in
a comely lap.



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