For one reason or another
the Sun seems to still move
compact and deliberate
with clear trajectories of melody and
form in purposeful
motion until it’s just a few
feet from the horizon,
landing on my neck
with the soft
expansive warmth
of loneliness.
Like chewing on dirt
in the soft bed of infinity.

Somewhere,
not here,
a gallery of mislaid futures lie abandoned
on lonely highways of America.
An epic laceration to the very
heart of the world
from a day all the wheels slid loose
and the stars dropped away
leaving the moon to throb
it’s dusty pale light
and unmask the world
revealing dim fragments of lovely forms
hidden like burning black oak trees.

Nobody saw the accident.
One day everyone just woke up
and started breathing in road.
Watching lines of nearly broken men
marching ever onward from the wound.
The unsteady
steadying
the unsteady
in a paperclip labyrinth
where reality
gets in the way of dreaming

It’s late
and will only get later,
but I will still wake up
with things to
tell you.