(insert title here)

Open wider inside the day,
paperclip inside colored sky.
So I, a paperclip bag,
shining on black mirror asphalt,
on road fields as mistakes come around.

I, body in desert, sunpicked, outside
the tapes of some television.
Home, key out,
until space pushes into reach.

As you can see, the poem is essentially the same; turns out it sounds better backwards. I'm not sure what to call it, though. It also feels unfinished--there is a new direction emerging, all I have to do is figure out where it wants to go. I think it wants to stay on the road...