I-94 E

I can hardly see through yesterday’s rainbows

in a black and white photograph blanket fort

            (Please)

Turn up the radio til it disappears.

Hidden fires strip to streetlight personals

They flipbook by and your head on my shoulder

is the harvest moon.

The light woke up to find herself tied with wire

but the lightning poured

through cracks in the sky.

I kick trash under the seat

as we drive into the flash

of a slow apocalypse

Mile Marker 37         

Then one tree said to the other

They’re coming

in a sweating Jeep

with threadbare headlights

“They’re coming…

In a threadbare jeep…  

They’re coming…

with headgear…”

And each tree bent to tell his neighbor

The vowels and Jeep blurred the road

til they grew to wind.

The invitation was the thunder

and the trembling shuffle

of impatient trees.

 and up ahead a sapling pulls at his mother’s sleeve.

3:00 a.m.

The fog spreads dollops of streetlight across the windows with an heirloom knife and comes towards us

Asphalt Riverbed

Yesterday, I slept past judgment. 

You didn’t wake me. 

And its I-94 and I-16 and I-am

driving asleep.

And the West has told the East

it is time for a nightcap

and fond words between friends-

this is the fifth sign.

And my wheels have been kissing

the sixth sign since before

I was kissing you.

The car sings river songs

to the wet pavement.

I blow an aspen eyelash off your cheek.

Felix Deiss