Traffic Jam
cars hunker,
such orderly rubble,
bricks from a shattered,
rebuilt biome.
surely this is progress,
viewed through a cookie-cutter then
laid in strips to cube a valley’s waist.
and so the city gets cinched
until smog glooms,
cowing the sun to slouch under crimson.
windshields shimmer,
shocked by the tarnish of this uncertain blood.
has something been strangled?
row after row, line after line of cars.
for just a moment within the miles
they are the arteries of a heart
struck by revelation.
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