hold the wine; its allure gone,
excepting those priors, no fault
like the present. Chasms I can’t look
into, so deep did they run;
splintery forms, still locked onto
sheer concretized walls, clipped
rebar running rust; here and there,
inexplicably unbound, a tie-wire
rocks on any pickup of the wind,
barely breathed, and silent,
the thruway no longer closed.
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