SPEED FILLED
WITH NOTHING
I am going to say that you must arrive, heading
downward, your face in a filter, your hands in
the grave. Already all this is surmised by anyone
truly in the know. The capsule within which you
are riding has long ago capsized and is rolling
over, pitch and yaw, over and upon itself. There's
no choir in the loft : above your head only an old
and raging highway roars; cars filled with speed,
speed filled with nothing.
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