Rolling across the fragile plain towards home.
The curvature of the earth, the silent mystery.
Tree tops haloed in fractured light.
Farmhouses quiet and still.
Moments ago...
I was in a hotel room with monogrammed pillows, marble fixtures.
The western Atlantic Ocean yawning
its deep pool across the hemisphere.
A banquet room with band,
smirking middle-aged men with bottles of beer,
young women in cocktail dresses and come fuck me boots.
The younger man would,
an eight ball in his room and a bottle,
come to in the morning all awkward and hurting.
The wiser man checked out and vanished down the darkened highway
where abandoned filling stations stand sentinel bathed in glittering moonlight.
Wind blowing in the window,
softness on the edge of town.
The black evening closes her arms in a sensual embrace.
April 29, 2008
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