There are no subways in Michigan
we write them off for Eastern fare
wind in our hair
lamenting the deathly slumber
of four-wheeled streets.
Meanwhile no one
listens to the rain
our souls spatter on the lakes
in the buzzing wake
of another ghostly tale.
The sun shines
on the creaking creep
of golden dunes
swallowing our memories year by—
imagination, drifting
over the gulls and with the wolves
reach for the hands that raised
skyscrapers spearing sky
alone in Detroit
longing for the city.
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