highway 347
this memory the scent of spring
a hill above a highway where
we would bake beneath the trees
and silently sing to the notes of
passing cars and surreptitiously dance
leaving our backs and limbs
tattooed by grass and scarred by rocks
2 thoughts on "highway 347"
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Great ending with those two final lines…
I freaking love this. It shows me an everyday scene as an almost religious experience.