November 2nd 2021
Driving north, I feel like night
might as well owe me a picture.
The slow, beaded rattle of the lit
parts of the A1(M) ribbons me out
until I’m like a sword of ice in space
choosing a planet to orbit. The screaming, alien
boredom of my lonely engine hums, and
I’m speaking aloud with the dark before I know it.
I see an oval of road / nor the trees which don’t abut it.
The mountain is vast / see how easily I eat it.
The morning is coming / like a residue I leave it.
Somewhere an ocean begins to sink
beneath a blooming rug of oil.
At the edge of the bowl of my headlamps
the florid tares of night beckon me home.