by Daniel Sumrall

      Air, only a few degrees away
      from the scent of snow,
      possessing no echo, other than
      resonance across slopes
      tight and coarse like skin,

      voices. Through the windshield,
      behind the shade over my eyes,
      lost distinguishing
      distancing myriad textures
      over the land underneath. Highway

      concrete in patches
      as the grating wheels tumble
      carrying turbulence, through
      a cold timbre interior,
      to me, mimicking static.

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