The highway ahead
is as flat as the horizon looms high,
crosses the kind of desert landscape
that can only end in mountain ranges,
a circumstance of geography and geology
and hand, eye, foot coordination.
But the day is drawing to a close.
The cactus turns to mist, then mystifies.
And that horizon reddens.
Weariness welcome an hallucination
here and there –
a giant serpent, a lake,
a prospector tramping
alongside the road.
And yet I speed on,
trusting that the car can see more clearly
than I can,
as its lights scan the road ahead
and miles tremble
at my wheel’s revolution.
And mountains are now darkness
and drawing nearer.
Space is taken from me.
Time has the upper hand.
Second, third, fourth, fifth…
dimensions are a cruel joke.
One moment lacks contact
with the next and the one just been.
The road is suddenly an abstract painter
and I am its work on moving canvas.
I am a concept moving at great speed.
Only a crash can save me.
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Flights.
