La Folia of Glass and Brain

Rear axle ticks my back

As drive we into the night.

I’m composing another variation in my head–

But nothing can stop the labor pains.

I press my forehead to the glass;

Staring out through the long red rains.

It doesn’t conform to shape of mind,

It doesn’t comfort with warmth–

Just a cold, flat pane to press against brain

And the bloom as breath forms around it.

Foggy sight and sound

Grow weaker

with every revolution.

And–almost–I can hear my own thoughts

As I push glass and gray matter together

In a symphony of light


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