Another forty hours crucified.
Invisibly, more soul gets dissected
and tossed beneath the altar.
No matter how scared you are
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of who you owe or what you miss
commuting to work
in the fog, realize,
even a life in the breeze gets snagged.
Plastic catches in barbed wire,
but untouched, the clocks gears
never quit braiding their brass
fingers throughout the long shift;
and that is lunchtime news worth clipping.
So head-stash a crooked little grin
as if it were Earth’s last blue flame,
burn home and shed that spotted
costume from your corolla
like flower petals thrown down
from the rain.