A line of wet black birds on the power
wire, coal drops, hunker
elbow to elbow. I will gun it
for the open drawbridge. There
is a casket I need
to go dancing on.
Hellbent in a red-earth rusty
Benz. Mesquite trees crouch, thick
as the skritch of a wire brush. My Greek
chorus, hoarse as wet gravel
in a perpetual drought. The hands
of the highway butterfly out.
The luxe nubuck interior balloons
until I’m a drawn cat, forepaws clawed
to the wheel—tail ‘round the stick shift.
What is there to steer for
there is no world awake or in dream
I can’t brake.