I drive eighty miles an hour
to reach a place free of your presence
and memory.
Petal to the metal and music drumming
to the sharp turns of the two-lane,
I seek the mountains now veiled in smoke
from wildfires and storms,
hoping to find some answers.
But those mountains,
like all the others from before,
jagged and glacier-capped,
touch the sky in a way that I cannot
and hold within their sharp folds
the folly of a wisdom
not meant for me.
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