gravel construction piles covered in snow
look like mountains in miniature.
you pass the same landscape every week and never think to chronicle the crevices
but somewhere out there someone's field research is just waiting to be read
and train platforms are only as mundane as you make them.
now passing:
blue lines in bas relief,
bearing a vague resemblance to what one might call
Art;
street signs on street signs on highways on highwaymen;
lush, verdant graffiti,
left for all and sundry to see that you, indeed, did not get here first;
spindly tree limbs, wizened from late onset winter,
periodically covered in glass;
blood-aligned power lines;
a chiropractice of questionable ethics;
smooth, smooth angles from a truly elegant concrete pour;
a beach, erroneously named
(as deep suburbia does not true sand create);
a church or two;
spiky, abandoned pedestrian bridges;
and through it all,
you know
these tracks, this journey long
will guide you slowly back to life.