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What lies beneath the map inscribed in the soles on the highway

Nations buckle under my feet—
my fool head in the clouds rolling by;
trying to count too many voices
when there are
too many voices to count.

There are angels, oh yes, there are.

They clamor to become
my vest—
the shield they feel I have lost,
or before birth
I was never given.

I love them, and kneel at their feet.

There are devils in highway train stations;
crouching in-between small cracks;
fissures alongside the tracks,

alongside the way
on The Way.

I relinquish them to their mercies—
it is only the sun
I seek now.

Nothing is certain but Law.

And even Law has its coven of infinite
loopholes and warps
when the heat
finds a way
to expand—and

the ice in my pocket contracts,
giving birth to the crossroads ahead,
rising beneath my still feet.

The light is twilight plum/gray
as the cries of the many die off.

The whistle moves on without me,

while angels
make nests
out of road.

© Kristin Reynolds 12 17 2010

What lies beneath the map inscribed in the soles on the highway

Kristin reynolds

South Paris, United States

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