Trevor Tingle

East of Texas West of Louisiana


Mosquitoes ascend like resurrected dew.


An old friend and a recent acquaintance

lie on either side of me wrapped in what

blankets and clothing we possess in the rusted

bed of an old Ford truck, in the middle

of a harvested sugarcane field.


With the metallic tang of bug spray in our mouths

and the drawstrings of our hoodies pulled tight, we

imagine sleep against the coming light and briefly

unlearn our various definitions of alone.


Soon the sun sweats us out and we laugh at each

other’s swollen lips as we pack our bags and walk on.


The upturned shoulders of the country road smell

of damp earth and bare grainy details of color,

as though learning to exist in daylight for the first time.

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