Blizzard or Dismay
The low radio, sleet in sheets. Numb
landscapes of sleep itself a
season.
This double bed dosage, this
motel
pool headache room, US-RT noon
poster.
Ghosts a hinge. Middle America
all over
the dashboard and under the
bridge
in a coat of melatonin. Plastics.
When a road becomes the stone
of a pulse, pulsing. A completely
disassociated bumper, elevator
cavity of repetition. Remorse is
not defeat in the cloudy
bathwater of memory.
One wrong word strung among
infinite
lanterns along high beams. Rusts
the arcane needles. What you need
is
to wake up early, to dig yourself
out.
It is enough to breath it, to
lean into it, to be
blind or dazzled, to tremble
beside
the red red red red
