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Sunday, October 18, 2015

A Song of Night and Roads that Do Not End






The dogging catrain on the windscreen
In the hollow yawn of night
As the narrow of the highway
Spins a hill and out of sight;

And the beating of my heartfist
On the ribcage of my cell,
And my hand around the gearshift;
And the rest can go to hell;

Past the thrown net of a roadmap,
Tracing patterns I can't see:
Fleeing puzzles made for children,
Joining point A to point C;

Through the CB's wicked crackle,
Crypted chatter from some star;
Hauling cargo lashed to nightmare,
Lashed to sinew, lashed to car;

Through the gothic vault of evening,
Pending chimed ecliptic clock;
As the darkness falls in cinders--
Past each flame-red hex-formed "Stop";

Through the scattered shards of daybreak;
Through cascades of starling song;
Past the backdrafts of grass longing
As the nights and roads are long;

I've seen glories in the margins
Of sun-wet dissolving road;
But a teamster hates to use his brake--
It feels like growing old. 
I've known reveries of lying down
In lilies by the road;
But a teamster hates to use his brake--
It feels like growing old.

-- Stephen K. Roney

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