My pen stumbles through Illinois,
joking with bus stops about coming home.
Taking photographs of roadsides
(waiting for our skin to appear there).
Touching the shifter, tentative as the
flat of some field rips holes
in the calendars of our together.
The ink line of the highway
pushing past every
smoke-filled morning
as Chicago Sticks up its middle finger
chokes on the horizon.
The road rattlesnakes into the belly of regret
somewhere near the center of me burning
every tenement of sleeping hope.

Missing you is like Illinois.

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