A Trip’s End

An unfinished, unsettled air swells my lungs. I choke.
Hollowed redwoods and pastel Victorians echo car songs
I find no solace in repeating alone. Solo karaoke,
solo smoking, or solo sobriety will have to do.

Hotboxed silos, hapless silence.

I pack an empty bowl, imagine that Portland cottage without
the others’ glazed eyes and crusted smiles. Lacking carpool,
lacking company, once again scattered across a silver snowscape.
It never snowed on the trip. Only drizzled rain.

Misty woods, mysteried wanderers.

How will I continue to forget my needs, 
and through my high remember theirs?
The world now feels sliced open: a split shin on a California
run, a rocky bluff bleeding shrubs and succulents

into the Pacific. Pacifying placidities

filled our conversations then. We turned to music and movies,
unfinished horrors, tempered laughter, paused podcasts.
It was fine for a while. A timeless trance, a crunched-for-time
dance. Now I watch from a distance, no solace in distraction. Sigh upon 

a trip’s end and enter an entropic present.

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