Wiper Blade Lullaby

I follow the tire track glaze
on the polished hematite road–
fog takes the steering wheel
guides me up
and over Skytop
to somewhere else.

Before this road
I find myself in a graveyard
I’m there in the fog
like an undead ghost
the interstate is progress
and dominates the wild.

Trees call my phone–
I toss it over
the mountainside, rain
begins to fall like icy
rejections, still I hold onto
the fog, roaming
figurative mountains, my world
and validity run
on my interstate above the interstate.

Reality blows its horn
fog swallows that dreamy
mountain, and I’m back
in the rain collecting
image fragments from the side
of the interstate– shunned
by carcass- picking crows. 

***
I wrote this poem recently for the poetry class I was in.