Scribbler in the Night

Milky nibs wrote the road,
ink spilled from some long
dead cow, colors whence some
collapsed sun.  Gone out
trees and hungover fields
retching into our minds –
our passing cars – etherized.
We passed that canvas’s ploy,
pastels and plumes of lack,
a muse with not enough voice.
Oh wasted day.  Oh scribbler.

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