After work, the ride home can sometimes go otherworldly,
moving from four lanes and
traffic lights
to other kinds of intersections.
And the day's strategic opportunities
and change-managed tragedies
slowly go to tatter and fray,
and a strange dusk-before-dusk
appears between the still-empty houses,
and the trees slowly grown thicker, plentiful.
A veil between things, over the sky
thins,
and I round each curve
expecting silhouettes
of the departed dead
in the lowering glare of the sun.
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