at three am in a slipstream of hot
fury, coarse, given power
shining neath tungsten moons
wrapped in wan sheaths, blue and gray
sharp-points of needle-metal, there is a
rush of air about the ears, a mist is drawn from
unclarified air, sodden with sullen
recriminations, and whispers of relief.
Delve headlong, dive and reverse
speed to the surface, sputtering,
meet a vending machine, coolly
blinking fantastic zest. And one is stroked
to a humane plane, as, with the louche grace
of a goddess long sullied
sweet Sun on loamy throne rises, sprays
white milk warm and rich
soothe, soothe, salve and balm
for our arid eyes. |