when wet flurries splashed the glass
like stars? Driving as if there was
something out there, beyond the orchards
and cornfields buried in drifts, prowling
the slow curves as if by instinct?
You did not stop when the car swerved
near ditches or fishtailed in slipperiness
under the blinking amber light
of Bangor til you reached the lake
where drunken black waves rolled and you
walked the ice-slick pier where the
lighthouse eye swept the darkness and
the foghorn moaned. You stood there
trembling in the stillness, waiting
for something unknown and unknowable,
the same old story played out
yet again.
No comments:
Post a Comment