April 13

Sometimes biking back at night
I cut across a nearby church parking lot
and as my wheels spin beneath me
with the darkness around only broken by
the dim burn of nearby streetlamps
I imagine that I am gliding
across a sea of thick, black ink,
poured over the world to cover
all of its cracks and pock-marks
and eventually dissolve it down
so it can more easily melt back
in to the empty space it hovers in

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