Vagabond bards write about ovoid buds where roses
bloom—an anathema to deer but manger to worms
whose larva feed on under leaves. Slowly. Hidden.
Thumbing through maps creased & crisp
we search for lost highways beyond the scope
of GPS tracking & interstellar photography.
Curiosity lingers, anticipates private gateways
to emerge while standing on the scratch line,
jumping a starting pistol that may never fire.
Freeway nomads lacking grace and engineering,
we narrow our focus to roads far less traveled—paths
sans cell towers covered with leaves of uncharted pings.
Beyond the stopwatch measuring time, we blindly
roll forward on endless thoroughfares, race towards
checkered flags herald nowhere beginnings.
bloom—an anathema to deer but manger to worms
whose larva feed on under leaves. Slowly. Hidden.
Thumbing through maps creased & crisp
we search for lost highways beyond the scope
of GPS tracking & interstellar photography.
Curiosity lingers, anticipates private gateways
to emerge while standing on the scratch line,
jumping a starting pistol that may never fire.
Freeway nomads lacking grace and engineering,
we narrow our focus to roads far less traveled—paths
sans cell towers covered with leaves of uncharted pings.
Beyond the stopwatch measuring time, we blindly
roll forward on endless thoroughfares, race towards
checkered flags herald nowhere beginnings.
