The strip malls are endless,
false summits stretching out one
after the other, but we keep driving, 
determined to escape the brand control. 
The rumor is that you just keep going
until the parking lots turn to soil
that runs right to the edge of the road,
that you can walk in damp clay
glomming onto your feet as if 
it had found something kindred,
that you can sink your hands into the warmth
of it like coarse ground coffee,
and the stain will be like a birthmark
and a ticket back into to that great room
that dawn makes of the night,
that room where your heart beats
Not  Not  Not
a vestige of,
not the exile’s prayer,
not the lost cadence
haunting your dreams.




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Mark Dunbar lives outside Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent, Corvus Review, Bicoastal Review and the Ekphrastic Review, among others. He attended Kenyon College where he was the recipient of the American Academy of Poets Award.