The Night Drivers
The orchestral tuning-up hum of
electrical gas lamps on promenade letters,
projections stream flinty, hard steel
breeze floating on shipyard currents
to the breathy kiss of interlocked
stone finish.
String pluck pulls on nervous
tendon shape, pushed back and back
again in mind, and tries to stumble,
triggers trip of gold coin glitter,
but settles, as it goes: dust to
bedded sea.
Pulse of heated breath too, paints
skyline bursts a quickened shutter-shock
capture of glass stains; a cross
of train-track crissing, a slim
wonder of brittle billboard Midwest
blesses us.
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