I-90

a full moon over an illuminated city at dusk

observed through the tired half gaze of

a trench-coated man behind a steering wheel,

tail lights stretched into a blur of exhaust,

shimmering like a dizzy spell,

crafting a mosquito flecked darkness that feels

like spinning or the fright of waking in a

darkened bedroom and not recalling where.

a cracked window filters the scent of combustion,

smoke from chapped lips negotiates a space for

its own defeated smell of momentary

comfort betrayed by tinged fingernails.