by Christopher Raley Dizzy is the road at night in hit of wind and red tail lights trailing gone around the bend where sudden are come head lights of blind, and front-end bears down hard on the curve.
Michael says he hates night and squint anxiety. He can't abide the rain-drop smear and ugly grimace of wiper blade's swipe too soon on the pane. Muscle tension searches dark for signs spawning exit.
I told him: Once we rose above the valley floor and flew where hills step to mountains who graduate angles of mystery neither height nor depth over comes.
I looked upon the glimpses of that fickle road, sometimes north, sometimes south, and saw the hope of miles. Welcome to darkness, Michael. You're only ever going west.