Tomorrow seems so far away,
a distant blip on
the horizon
like a razor blade
I need a machete to chop
through today with this eternal morning
waving leisurely at noon,
afternoon a mirage of iridescence
oil on water on the
pavement, cheap swirling
pollution,
petroleum-laden puddles
with no depth, no clear boundaries,
just this ever-spreading shorthand:
a miasma of distortion
spreading out on the highway,
carried in tire treads
of trespassers
across state lines.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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