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.