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Passenger Seat

Poetry & Prose | February 18, 2014

I climb in

to the familiar perfume of melted
cinnamon gum and cough drops, like menthol cigarettes
a swift brush of recognition before
the slow wave of freedom breaks
a crash on the beach like a hug

There’s nothing in the world but this.
it’s not possible, when the road is this quiet
and the fog is this blue
this seventh definition of love
like Eskimos have thirty for snow, one
for each shape,
for each texture,
for each catch of sunlight.