Coming to terms with nothing. The portico
smoldering in cinnamon flames, gusting 
lightly across a skylit backdrop. A low whine 
hits the atmosphere and tumbles over itself

a weed set loose across the i-15 — the milkman 
is late. Has been late. Will be late. Does 
the desert survive? 

Empty space in 
a man-made place

[my shoulders are up to my ears on this one]


Rozell, 2022.

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