D. R. Wormack
the dying light after sunset,
when the clouds appear
in a backlit collage with pink hope
illuminating the fragrant atmosphere furthest away,
i cling to.
like reading without a lamp in the last light,
eyes stretching aching pushing past
labyrinthian hedges of shadow
to only show one word highlighted
on the arbor pulp maze of letter,
reading in spite of
what it might do
to my eyes, i don’t think
i could see to begin with,
i’ve never read in the light
because in that almost darkness almost hell almost
night stars shine brighter than
that dull carcass of grey sunlight,
and i can see that one word
that shines despite being copied with
the same ink on the same press
as every other word on the page,
like a spotlight it shines.
that is why i watch the sky
when i drive in that purgatory twilight
nestled strangely alone in my car,
that is how i love.
i ignore the twisting hills,
the washed away white lines.
i can’t feel the chill of the steering wheel.
i can’t see the lonely tears streaming
from my eyes, asking to do it over,
to make the u-turn, to return
to a less lonely time. i look up
and i only see a cloud against the dull sky,
i know it’s the only other thing
on that drive,
far from each other, we’re alone in the world
waiting for time to melt
the horizon between us.
no matter how long i drive,
that cloud Shining at 6 p.m.
on a winding appalachian road
will still be in my sky.
2023.
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