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The road is damp and it shines,    the sky
This low hanging roof of vapour    wet hair heavy    the roadside-grass
Drenched as matting on days the drizzle continues unabated,

A passing truck
A white driver
The trucks slipstream spraying blocking view,    the spray
Clears with the view through the windshield

  Returning in flashes
And I am in Iowa,
The soaked roadside bush Iowa green    the landscape rusted wire fenced
Flat and empty    the road leading into town its streets defunct of litter the bars
Heavy with whites only taiga the induced distancing the silences like noon day prairie    vistas
Highlighted by sunshine    the ever present wind gusts ripping sleeves
I am in this white circle of hell and as the fear starts hitting me
Next to wet Iowa green four blacks waiting for taxis to lift them