GETTING THERE AT 3 AM
The wheel's a clock
I've been gripping for hours,
but what comic book
is this? Blinding butterflies
have frozen their screams
on my windshield.
The blurred moon
seems a white-faced budgie,
and I'm a cat
wanting action
with the out-of-reach.
Tired, hallucinating...
it's hell
at cross streets, signals flashing
in nerve and synapse:
slices of kiwi, banana,
and baby tomato.
Strange neon
spells OTEL
on a sister planet, and the radio charges
a punk guitar
with static. It's farther away
I'm coming to—
when out of the bug-ridden haze of porchlight
a number of cockeyed
and cracked with rust
says maybe,
and when the door opens finally,
it's to an unbelievable
face, to deep sheets
and a bell-clear embrace.
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