Fever Trip

You become the pavement,
the bridges, the softly sighing reeds
murmuring back the secrets
of the taillight eyes,
peering through wheat hair.

The window breathes against your face
cool air heavy against you
as you disperse yourself
along the route you travel.

You merge with yellow lines
dancing careful entranced
between death going one way
and death going another;

past sick fluorescent QuickChek lights,
the rivers floating phantom cities,
nameless numbers counting ghosts,
neon lights that blur and twist
you spin into the damp, dark sky.

Racing wild outside the glass
you ride between the clouds
a dashboard diety incarnate,
zipping down the parkways
shot like veins beneath
the blacktop by the sickle moon.

Written February 2005
Revised March 2012


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