I am driving down a hill
without name on an
unnumbered highway.
without name on an
unnumbered highway.
This road transforms into
a snake winding around
coiled on hair pin turns.
a snake winding around
coiled on hair pin turns.
See how it hisses though this
long night. Why am I alone?
long night. Why am I alone?
At bottom of the incline
lies a dark village strangely
hushed with secrets.
lies a dark village strangely
hushed with secrets.
How black it is. How difficult
to find what I must discover.
to find what I must discover.
My fingers are tingling cool, smoke
combs the air, static fills night.
combs the air, static fills night.
I continue to cross gas lit streets
encountering dim intersections.
encountering dim intersections.
Another maze. One line
leads to another. Dead ends
become beginnings.
leads to another. Dead ends
become beginnings.
Listening to lisp of the road.
My slur of thoughts sink as
snake rasps grow louder.
See how the road slithers.
My slur of thoughts sink as
snake rasps grow louder.
See how the road slithers.
What can be explored? Where
can it be? All is in question.
can it be? All is in question.
The Blue Hour welcomes Joan McNerney with this lovely poem.
Thanks so much for the wonderful welcoming. Will be sending more work soon. Your format is wonderful.