No fire in the sky at five, but there is steam rising
From manholes, trashbags lined at the curb, red hydrants.
The upturned eyes of fresh raccoons glint like coins laid
Over them. Stars collect dust in the promised land’s attic.
I’m driving toward bread rising for the kilns, my daily living,
Driving white-knuckle careless further west into night
Where the sky is solid pitch. From daylight
I know these fields strewn gold with hay
Mown swift and ripe into bales of sense. Roadside,
Two pale horses eat dew in their sleep,
Nothing coarse or wild left in them. I haven’t said
One word to you since last week. Up ahead, love,
A crumpled panel truck gone awry in the ditch,
Its motor still a fit of startled iron and sparks.
The temptation is to roll
In that river of milk running
Out the tailpipe, current of detergent and oil.
Then the asphalt dark where the driver’s body spilled out
Then not his face but the sheet taking its shape
Then medics it is coming closer the red alarm
Then the deep trees gypsy moths my headlights, a horizon.
When I come home I will not tell you I did this,
Passing by, growing smaller than life
Because it feels good because it feels.