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Driving Out

Road Kill

Luminous as an unclouded mile,
asphalt stretches out in August
an endless gurney in a state-of-the-art
morgue where ghosts congregate,
swap endings.
Lonesome as fire must be,
unable to hold anything close for long
but itself, this highway sings lullabies
to sleepy drivers, hums dirges
you can hear if you roll down
your window as you streak by what lies
disemboweled and shimmery
under tires you under-inflated
at Leonard's Last Chance Garage.
Your bed will hold you tonight
or some bed, and you'll wake
up in a hot sweat still dreaming
the open road labyrinthine as
endless hunger, your need
for the radio, loud and mindless,
invisible as guilt.