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by David Veloz

I drive my car to you. I drive
my car until the tires get soft
and my ears get sick of the radio.                                                                                                   I drive under a caramel sky without stars.

This caramel sky looks like the sky
above a power plant or a big city.
But this road has no power. This road
is soft and quiet and feels like skin.

The dress I bought you is unwrapped
and on the seat beside me . I drape
it on my legs and play it through my hands.
The heater blows your dress against my arms.

With the window down I smell cattle
and hear the screams of slaughtered pigs.
The caramel night mixes sounds and mixes
up my heart. I hope you hear my honk.