You're blue darkness in the
Illinois night, a collection of trailers
and white silos, there's not one
picture of you but what I have
from the back seat of a car without gas,
I can't even hear the sleeping cows or
the time changing. The sun dips
quickly along the fault lines,
time lines, man made constructions,
.4 miles from the highway, too bad we
only found dirt roads on the way to
St. Louis or back-- I tell Whit
it's an hour shying away
it's what America looks like at dusk, but
he only wants to rub against my
face--he's been lost before under the stars
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