I only
ever thought to see anything on the highway
and never driving; millions of things, even.
Spines could pop into view and reflected upon
grasping sunlight with my eyes; longed and ranged
to gaseous giants pulling the sun’s light outward.
You are such a gaseous giant, though dead and laying.
My eyes are all that are left, besides the winds
and your pull on the sun’s light as it brings you to my eyes.
Memorials for yourself, arisen in my thought and
variously, thusly, in the thoughts of everyone if they
had seen you laying there as I passed on the highway.
Nothingness and cold trajectory since we see you dead,
or in life, as it is, after death, to our eyes, not yours; dead.
What were you, answer me, halberd or fawn or gull, dead?
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