Christine Gosnay


the world was flush with          grass      and      tar

ambitions below and within

the             concrete             bloomed            
the             asphalt               bloomed

like            little           daisies







This piece was written recklessly on the steering wheel of a moving vehicle on a day when the temperature was so high that the horizon ceased to be, and it looked like the earth would sizzle and promptly swallow up anything that stopped moving across it for too long. The shoulders and medians and surfaces of four-lane highways tend to have their own personalities on days like that.