by L.M. Browning, an except from Drive Through the Night, a collection forthcoming late 2020.



If we kept moving

    —blind in the blur

       of mileage mounting—

we might outrun the sun

and not see the sight awaiting

in the bare daylight

that we were the source

of each other’s psychosis

and to lose the madness

would require roads

opposite in all ways.

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8,947 miles later, I know now why you refuse the say the names of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing—afraid as you are of the monsters are still under the bed—yet in the silence, you give them immortality…

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