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by Nancy Clark
Air cooled and cruise controlled,
I hug the interstate
through a sun-soaked August afternoon,
the kind that makes me
six or eight or ten again
and lying on my back
to contemplate the same kind of sky
the windshield shields me from--
sky that's watercolor washed in fertile blue
with white clouds rising like fluffy mushrooms
that billow into imagined faces
and other soft similes.

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