Driving.
The gas drains
to a
glowing line of red,
a barely
slanting angle, a
neon finger
feeling the matte-black dache
before
the ground-floor,
the empty signal
flashes.
The truck is
thirsty; it sucks
the tarry tank
of shadow, liquid
seepage
from dead things long dissolved
in the solvent of years.
A dead plant's midnight tears
ignite
in the deep-purr
of pistons; the
truck labors
its asthmatic breath
through
my vibrating frame.
13 miles, almost
a gallon
stretched into
ribbons,
pressed to
spun rubber
and rain-dented asphalt.
A raccoon hunches
its velvet shoulder
over the yellow
median's dashed line,
all nocturnal meanness
and feral menace dented
into gentle repose
by some fender
or the jumping
pop
of bones spread
and released form the lock
of ligament and joint,
flattened beneath
the fur-softened fabric
of hide,
shoulder
forming a line
of sleep, a curved line
so much like sleep.
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