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:: Sestina On A Highway Sign by Donny O'Ryan ::

There were days when I was older, one eye
to the sky, other at ground, loping in highway
ditch, on home before dark, in purple cloud
of exhaust, tramping along with a book
in my hip and a shoelace undone, looking to get wet in the river
below crawling under the bridge, wandering to the horizon,

the ocean, did it really make it to that horizon,
outbound and crashing in silence like an eye
blinking at midnight, like muffled trickle of river
at midnight, like empty homeless highway
at midnight, like fallen splayed book
on sleeping chest at midnight, while a cloud

outside played in open sky silent midnight without another cloud
to hold its hand, to run giggling to a horizon
filled with skies with as many clouds as a book
has words or a beach has grains but only takes one in the eye
to scratch and produce streaming highway
of tears, as many are in the river

below my bridge, below my feet, below my river
of thoughts and ideas that dance and cloud
my brain and sometimes race and flow like highway
open at sundown, highballing toward that horizon
smiling and grinning her careful eye,
always watching like the titles in a book

case always look back at me in book
store, me stepping along aisles, careful along river
bank, the moist soil, feeling the fish eye
me suspicious from beneath, hiding under a cloud
shadow, coy, whispers the horizon
to me like the sad highway

whispered to me on stone days quiet, the sky highway
black above as I cowered under shadow of book
shelves in warm narrow hall, the top shelf a horizon
far off, calling me the way a river
calls the ocean, the way a cloud
calls the sky and how I, with one eye

to the sky, one eye sees the highway
following the lines, the sky following the cloud, the book
and river do not end at the horizon.

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