This place is out of reach. This case is minus two dollars and cents.
Windchill neg forty: raw blast force through bus hut for bodies. No
ticket. No wicket. No keypad. No quick mart. But car park. But rapid
transit mound. Call this is. Case this is. Place. It is out of bounds. Bound to
numbers. To units. Words twice. Air time stopped. Heel toe. Snow to
bones. Packed on routes. Paths. I’m negative forty or sixteen bucks. Not
numb, not I, No thing. But closer, come. Mini van. Taxi cab. In
back seat. The driver’s shield. Driver’s side. From there his voice. His voice and,
up front, dear. It’s safe here. Near me, dear.