dream of bikes everynight

This is my new love,

It is hard to explain. Maybe the poet is dead- one of the bugs flat-smashed on my windshield.

Maybe it was just a dream- sailing through the cold of mountain passes, or the sagebrush of the desert.

I dreamt it, then.  Dreams of baby cows, of rusty tractors,  desolate gas stations.

– the way the trees shimmered- all the millions of trees I seemed to pass-

dandelions yellow one day and  nothing the next.

There are no words. The poet is dead. This is my new love.

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