Ode to K-40

     I
     I rush like a blood cell,
     oxygen in my throat,
     two eyes, tearless, watch
     the windshield wipers polish the image
     of a road.
     Blinders in my blind spots.
     Grey veins bind Gaia.

     Green, gold, grey,
     green, gold, grey,
     the sun paints the canvas
     season after season.

     II
     I watched as I passed a fox lying in the road.
     I said nothing.
     I came back, hours later, from the other side
     to see her stomach bulge, pups,
     spilled out her soul.
     I raised my eyes to the passenger window.
     No one and everyone rode with me.
     Green, gold, grey,
     green, gold, grey.

     My blood poured out
     to the fields surrounding me.
     I noticed tufts of trees
     sheltering their knees
     where the saplings cower.
     A rural sleep overcame
     the dust my tires peppered
     with rubber. The beaten path,
     the unnatural cut into her, the road
     into her. My bloodshot eyes like red rope gathered
     her in a nest. Red.
     Red,
     green, gold, grey,
     red.


Jacob Price hails from the Pacific Northwest, but after a few years of trekking across the states, finds myself in New Jersey. Growing up in Washington, he learned to love the outdoors and gained a desire to write about “outside”. Now, he tries to ignore the irony that printed poems are published on dead trees
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