Driving down 76, tires

a slow waltz on slick roads, cars

nosing into the dark spell

of a gossamer night, snow

a shimmer in headlights,

feathering the trees that breathe

with supplicant arms, sentinel glance.

I think I should be tense, anxious,

a tight grip on the edge

of a long day in a winter’s glare

but the night is a lullaby, a hush

even with scrape of wiper blades,

slap of ice, a misty caravan song,

and I wait for what will meet me here,

where I can be claimed by a rash

of sorrows, dint of hope

with my aunt in a hospital bed, half

paralyzed, roped to silence by stroke,

while somewhere depression paints

its warpath on a body I love

and a marriage clings to a fistful

of promise and bullets steal

our young, our black, our thunder

hearts while beauty

wants one more

kiss.