Tarmac blood in
a ribbon vein,
running on top
of a French landscape,
sunshine and no rain;
a scar I like to call the D338.
Sunflower crowds that
move together,
follow the Sun as if
loose feathers in the wind.


Doorway women squint
into the sky,
their aprons tied tight
to their waist side pockets,
deep with recipes scribbled on paper
and the keys to their acre
behind the family's tin pan roof.


Settle your back back into your seat,
strap in to keep in line your broken spine,
keep concrete eyes on the foundation skyline;
for this is the road that sits upon an alter, the holy shrine of France.