The path black and icy as Sheol. I mean. White
and the iron running to us through the water.
Gas lines bringing us up into birdsong. Hot-blue,
red-blue, birdsongs. The way they knew
what we could come upon. What the sun had
fallen upon, and the snow, and then hid.
And the dead leaves. And the decayed trumpet vine.
Something provides invection; gray sedan,
bumper lost. The way the moon comes in,
the gloss of it on the worn seat leather.
Lost flyers in the backseat, lost girls, lost
girls, lost girls. Cross-hatched, fabric
and something white as a knuckle-bone.
Out in the weather, it has become a stone.
The night moves in to wear it.
The night when we ignore it.