What’s Unsaid

How typically driving down these roads
we hoped we wouldn’t hit one thing,
the goats we’d handed that morning
herded by that hour so the jackals
wouldn’t make fast work of them,
pink yolk rupturing over peaks
as we raced the sunshine down the mountain.

Solely as soon as did a boar burst out of the woods
like a query simply as quickly retracted.
Then we have been alone once more with every part
we didn’t say, the wind farms winding
their nice arms by nothing,
turning from a spot too far to listen to.

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