The truck on the bridge clatters overhead,
like I do on the inside,
bleating tarmac fields,
the cacophony of rush hour
echoing the dissonant fugue
playing inside my core.
I lean into the wheel
pushing toward the calm of night
a black-inked road,
mounding and falling,
florescent eyes
boring holes through
a woolen curtain—
Ahead, distant taillights
slice the darkness,
precise incisions scoring the night,
etching a forward trail—
but leaving it
bleeding thick and crimson.
Liza Carens Salerno
7/20/12
