Why must other drivers insist
on being on these roads?
They blind you with headlights.
Halogen, I think. Blue orbs
suffocating your eyes.
Unwanted guests. On night roads
it's preferred to indulge
in thoughts that you are alone
between the two sides of forest.
A blackness in front --
or rather, just beyond--
your own normal headlights.
A solitude never felt
because of the swelling of the CD player;
but seen, since night gallops ahead
of light and the only road
is what the lamps will give.
You might hit a deer or moose.
Wouldn't know it was coming.
That's why the moose is always black
on a yellow sign:
a dark object hit by sudden light.
It's them and the blue neon spout
of the fountain factory
that keeps this stretch lit.
Plain American Language
I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...
and placed it inside/my philosophy...
Sunday, August 3, 2008
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1 comment:
Good poem.
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