The fields pass like porn
beside his car window,
and the trickle of highway
down the crotch of horizon
is infinite, all-allotted,
but always unsatisfying.
If he were to park here
and walk straight until
something stopped him,
would he then imagine
himself already in St. Louis,
this rural nonsense passed?
Is that what he wants
whenever his tongue goes wet
dreaming of the earth's smooth
curve, how close it seems?
Is he chasing a soft sleep
near the Mississippi River bed,
or the golden areola of the sun?
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