I have read that the land is beautiful to make it difficult to forget

And it really is

Especially when the pain drains into the West

Like the clouds of the end of summer


There is some kind of silky smooth

 Terribly appealing fear

Which consists of air conditioners in a peripheral neighborhood

And a road named eight five four

I still dream of


And if I would be given a day

Just one day

I swear

I would drive up and down this road

Wandering between two and a half thousand

And four thousand rpm

Like chronic and incurable

Heart arrhythmias

(No, People don't die from it, but thank you for asking)