License Plate

A car drives the past passed the brain
and no one winces but the crickets in the wind

beneath the underbrush of their song
the shadows of which crawl, crawl for

night and the stones of the night’s throw,
to sit and ponder the thrown of the moon, to

then, run on and find a pond at the bottom of
their significance, only a sound, a continual chirp

a returning thought, revolving-door, a corridor
of noise, the emblem of the car, a license plate

and what it took to purchase it


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