maybe

if there is an end in sight
its a wooden sign nailed to a post
half-leaned into a waiting wind
with a pile of rocks at its base
miles of road stretching on before
miles after

or maybe its nothing
just fields of green grass
stretching out into the horizon
calling you home
to the ring of cicadas in the rising heat
of an otherwise quiet summer day

whatever it is
I haven’t come upon it yet
and maybe I never will

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