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Wednesday, January 11, 2012


A hunter of shadows, himself a shade. ~Homer

The Nobility of the Night Drive

And there you stand like
a red stop sign
on some deserted road--
a nameless road,
a winding and twisting script,
a finger gliding across a map,
white lines dividing brain matter.
You are dwindling behind me like
an 8 track without lyrics.
You continue to stand still
disappearing into a certain shadow, into a
broken rhythm where reality stops moving.

Driving forward, wild hair finding wind,
you are a little secret locked in my mind,
you hold otherworldly symmetry,
reservoirs of memory, topography
fading into the past black roads,
an arrested fluid mirage.
My memory is becoming elastic, a
bending liquid story living in the
recess of my yellow cautioned bridge.

Life is soaring around me like
a solitary bird of prey
kiting the domain of her sky; behind me,
the rearview reflection remains silent.
My white leather passenger seat
is empty—black cracks in the creases--
left behind from another lifetime.
My fingers wrapped
around the sturdy steering wheel driving
a circular perception, my translatable
top down, my speeding tires
making contact with the present ground,
ether of your vanishing memory.

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