stopsign

 

It was science fiction television, a windshield framing
a deep darkness with stretching white lines. Polyester,
ratty fabric pressing against my chest, sinking against skin,
grounding thoughts –but they float away into the celestial
outside, panic laced, dripping with heavy grief.

Cramps churned, itchy Velcro pressing, urging; this was
a falling star growing much too close to ground.
Surreal, swinging thoughts like a pendulum; stop signs
unheeded, face alit with a dashboard green glow,
digital lines of a clock painted on my face.

A borderland state calling, star dust whipping by,
consciousness and oblivion, I hummed, gasping, time
at the forefront, lungs contracting, thoughts swinging,
begging I’d get home without angry eyes peeking
through a window.

 

 

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