Portend

Again, the highway tries to end me. The water

thick like honey between

the blades of my windshield,

For a moment, I lose the windows

And myself, in the night.

One hand on the wheel and the other cupping the wet sky,

wind lapping up against

my fingers riding that undulating air

...my little phone speakers trying to sing out a victory,

Blotted out by the rush of the hour.

It's late.

I have to work in the morning,

and surely I will get no good sleep.

New scenarios will tumult me tonight

thick in honeyed dreams

as dangerous as this highway is.

We don't get to choose what ends us, usually.

But I know

there is some portend in this sky

pelting its dagger-droplets

downwards

and tempting the charged air

to lick me clean from my skin,

Out of this Earth.

Maybe to go to a place sought by the stars

as they merge into one.

I remember now

the quietness of your eyes

as they were reading me.....

I don't know who you are,

...or what you have undone.