The Weekly Commuter

Though invisible,
it exhibits
fluid, unctuous shadows
around my shadow.
The fumes, even in my hair,
hoop and halo
then expire
in their own mirage. The rush
of a passing bus
sweeps morning up
in devils and I’m loosed
on the heatstruck
crosswalk. Swiftly,
in the molten flow
of asphalt and medians
and autoelephants,
I no longer sense
the aura you lent.

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