We folded clouds 
like Origami, making highways
for the dead to skirt down
off the skyboard.  They hold out
their arms like giant hooks
in a whirlpool; cocked back
waiting to hitch a ride
with the living.

We didn’t walk 
the roads we created, choosing instead
to walk the badlands; no tears
to bring back the barren ground.

Even the fog can be shaped
into highway signs, telling
the angels to make a u-turn.



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