Running at night.
Cold, hazy air.
Leafy branches cascading down,
trying to encircle
the whole world
in their arms.
Streat lamps scattering gold over
long,
lonely,
winding roads.
Puddles
just deep and black enough
to be holes
in the thin membrane of our world.
Shine a light
over their glassy surface; see just how
disconcertingly
shallow
they really are.
