Pinholes by Robert Beveridge

Boots worn to nubs, the scratch scratch

of a lack of rubber on pavement again,

again, again along a road straighter 

than anything you’ve ever seen 

in the entire universe. You recall

a time when you stood on a balcony,

looked out over—something, you no

longer remember what—but you stood,

did not walk, walk, walk, and with each

step that memory gets a touch more faint.

A few more steps and there will be peace

again, peace and endless, endless pavement.

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