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Put some gravel in your travel
Outside this crooked town, extra crosses grew to
hang, orthodox and equal. All wait at eye level on
the horizon, of another unpaved mile of highway.
Do unwelcome faces still lie and call from
undiscovered cemeteries? Are those the
only places to rest a weary head or feet?
Park, sleep an acre far from main street
until dying white leaves release their cling
tangled long in free stalks of roadside canola.
Here the cotton will weaves honor among thieves.
Leave now and get to the next town
before getting caught in the storms
coming between the change of seasons.
Come back round home to be born again.
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