Hour four is a hundred miles
of I-90, writers heading East
and noting the night
isn’t one of poetic skies,
no ripe plums and ashes raining
tiny gold embers into milk
spilled and swirled along
the distended belly
of the horizon. It is only dark,
then it gets darker.

It’s crickets and trees and
it might just be the pavement
rolling out to morning that drives
the lines of distinction shapeless,
until stars are nothing more
than glass shivering light from
the violent meetings of hour three,
the constellations refracted in the upturned
beams of automobiles hurrying
to the ocean with its own brand
of metaphors, black and deep.

07/28/2004

Author's Note: When you find poetry in everything... it's hard to not find poetry in everything.

Posted on 07/28/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason