by PM Flynn
A day’s bright air fades over my shoulder
where I push all distance:
behind clouds that surround two empty chairs, ignoring
an otherwise crowded sky. I close my eyes again.
A glossy road, a dark mirror or a polished river reflects
the bright glare; light for or against a water’s course,
and only at dusk when days no longer move.
For now, I follow the white lines to town:
most travelers arrive first, drafting winds from lighted streets
to darkness scattering burnt ashes on what doesn’t sell
and is cast aside.
Here, in my car, I ride with any moment remembered
from inside rooms of flesh and blood, or the white static
of TV screens, the soft midnight of lace bathing any room
with more attention than is necessary.
Setting aside peripheral houselights, I pass billboards and
returning traffic, their drumming music pounding distractions
into the crammed space of cigarettes, liquor and whatever
dreams come true while sleeping with any street or town.
At home, in the leaning of the tallest trees,
weak shadows fall on lain grass:
I sense your presence from another dream
as I walk over invisible dew cooling in moonlight.
published 29 June 2016