What the Sorrow of Highway Signs Said

Libby Burton 


The morning was thick with future 
and spindles ripped from stairs that once
brought you to me. Bright father, now you rule over

a finished country, and I promise I mean you
no harm. Today we cross
a single state, alongside drops of lit trash bled

from raggedy highway bushes. Sleep was that old storm
of all things as they never were, and it was yellow,
and it did not come long. Consider how few days 

will be etched into you. Consider how this world 
is rife with beautiful men who break
things casually. Now all of you is spilling from a spine

that is simply bone and wet. All parts of me were once something
you had forgotten. Now something to which
you return. Now even the needles of trees tremble

embarrassed. What I want is to be noticed
by your cathedralled arms. Because both of us
are broken, long gone, but no longer quiet here. 


Issue 12

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