The
clarion hum of streetlights, that serpentine hiss—
The
gargling drain spout, that dragonfly buzz—
The
vibrations out the television’s static mouthpiece—
The
engine running idle, that crackling fire in the pit, melt,
and
are absorbed before the overpass felt
like
the Titans rolling thunder over sound.
The
rustling grass by breath of breeze in a field—
The
bullfrog drone, that fallen tree—
The
marching steps parading down a chainsaw run
or
any bass chord of nature beating blood through it is dealt
unheard
beneath the freeway belt—
Those
cars forever passing on the ground.
In
it loon’s blues are beaten, cicadas made to perk—
Crickets
lost in tempo, grasshoppers rendered lame—
And
any thoughts of seated solitude surrendered.
All
for that distant gush of tires on asphalt and wind to frame,
where
steel and plastic meet the air
in
speed, echo endlessly, and deafen out trees.
All
things made to work by metal roar a hollow tone
heard
down the street, a whispered word—
a
fiend of headlights, a foghorn stretch of road
that
in night sits undaunted by your silent window black,
like
an ancient call and answer back,
a
vacant drum roll for New Age nurseries.
And
we used to see the headlights through the trees
what
seemed a hundred miles away—
It
was I-95 working its way along outside
my
bedroom window all night long when I was little—
used
to send my brother and I sleep bound
past
the emptiness in the distance.
A
Little Night Ambiance.
--Poems from the Sprawl
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