Winter beckons a call of empty static.
We stand on power lines, tight rope walking
Into a bleak electric forest.
The tropic of cancer lies between our toes,
Running home to grab each and every glimpse of grief.
Distracted with all intake of the stars and their
Speed of light bouncing off our blood cells.
The night guides the steering wheel through
The arteries of this town.
Tires roll past pools of plasma that
Are deposited in ditches of the roads.
Throw it in the fire
For we have no need for
exaggerated amounts of pride.
From this town’s Water Tower,
We see everything we used to know,
Love and glorify in this place.
Catch the highway’s vibrating sounds,
Place it in the neighbor’s swimming pool
Of the dead leaves and scattered dust
Left over from last Thanksgiving.
We have no need for the hours at hand.
Use them as softly as you can
And toss them in the flames that burn
Until you rest your mind.