There Are No Angels

I have become too citified
root bound
corporeal and harsh
road rage challenged
with every stop and start

I need to pack my bags
and go
where the air is charged
with zing molecules
and voices sound like music

sit on grass barefoot
under ancient trees
writing poetry of wildflowers
growing at a child's grave

look back
where there are no angels
on this cold black mountain
called home

---

     Julie is a wage slave holed up in Ohio, and writes poems on company time. Some of which can be found on the web and in small inconsequential print zines. She is working on a chapbook to be sold at Border's, in the parking lot, out of the trunk of her car.