Zine Fragment 072: “The Asphalt Oracle”

At the far end of Dock Street, past the drowned warehouses
and the blind windows bricked over in haste,
there is a stretch of road the city forgot.
It glistens black even in drought,
and if you stand there barefoot at midnight,
you can feel the tremor of a thousand past tires,
whispers of arrivals and escapes braided together.

The locals call it the Asphalt Oracle.
They say if you press your ear to the heat,
you’ll hear a voice—not quite human—
telling you which way to ride
when the world begins to burn.