About our meal on a Virginia curbside
there was nothing lively. For your weeping veins
had strewn their protean magic along the interstate
for miles, and we, former habitues of your alchemical streets,
found no life in concrete ligaments between
sidewalk and asphalt, between this Virginia and your
Land of Pleasant Living. We clenched our sandwiches
with our rows of teeth to watch
the dregs of your golden fluid seep from curb to drain,
and we recalled today's dawn (the passing of that final
dionysiac night) when you, the sun king,
transfigured your beau corps into monstrous
bevies of dripping, glowing, snarling arteries
that burst at the sunrise. Now our throats
and the long black throats of the highways home
lie awash in your nectar,
which is your body distilled,
and we are more alive than we know.
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