Matt Quinn
each morning a glass building at the edge of town blazes, glints sun from its windows, so becomes a rippling column bathed in brilliant glare gathered up and held in relief against blue sky — Excalibur
near the highway toll booth begins a daily ritual the line of cars slows, creeping forward as people fumble for change from cup holders then over into the till while those waiting raise one finger on a fist of rage.
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