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The Thing About Dreams

Everything lost along the highway at night

reflects, sparking, torrential, eyes of

landlocked Midwestern states turning in sequence

to battered tomes of ages past:

memoirist typefaces, laggy second-pressing

covers in watercolour fashion, kind to

find in gas station spin-racks between pulps

and Harlequins, beneath fading sun heat of

still water, exhaustion pills and greater motion.

How ever-crossed-up are means with ends,

subtle clanking of pens for wordsmiths,

a glancing glint for shots in the dark,

straining adolescent sentiment for passion;

who can blame for that,

with the tales of freeway freedom spinning

around airwaves' brusque light brigade?

If those wonders held truth, the thought

of leaping right over wood and wire laminate

of these knock-off Starbucks tables to

kiss you

wouldn't seem so distant,

you'd be the breeze between lampposts at dawn.