On this night
Bruce Hakes Jr.
a stuffed turtle keychain eyeless,
ketchup stained looks as doubtful
as a life speeding from hope--how
the undramatic, moonful cloudscape
would go unseen if not for the smell
of rain, if they didn't seem as mythic
as a dogged, breaded giant--on this
night my spiritedness is a sand fly
beating against the dirty windshield
as I exceed 90 MPH on a farm road
sometime after midnight--on this
night I remark the numberlessness
in being finite, as I'm reminded, by
the smacking of the turtle against
the steering column, of hope, that I am
driving drearily dreamless, head-
strong into an August thunderstorm,
hopeful, lightning will strike me
free of this, myself, this speedy cycle.