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By Paul Hawkwood

How warm is the rock on our roads?

What rocky consciousness lies there?

There’s no beating blood

in the aggregate –

just lime and rock and sand.

It can survive centuries of sun

but is worn down by winds

and the passing of a million tires

wearing a rutted path from my house

to yours.

What happens when you sit still

for so long and let the grooves grow?

When you let wind and rain and rubber

wear you into shape

while you patiently become as still

as the cosmos?

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