almost free

driving
making up for time lost
abandoned in better places
like fields full of hopeful dragonflies
left behind in worse places
like alleys full of rusty grime
pushing ahead through exhaust
loving the taste of diesel

– it smells like being free –

settling
between blades of wheat
and Queen Anne’s Lace we sleep
finding breath in earthen mounds
beneath hands molding sound
covering open wounds
with healing mud and moon
resting until we melt away

– it feels like being free –

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