Whimper

Fleeing north just ahead of the storm,
aim to reach home before the front
hits: the radio is all apocalypse
and we choose to burn
or freeze in our own beds; mud
in our mouths, or wind. We know
how we have conjured this. Yet
here we are again, driving
and driving, our headlights flash
against mileposts and markers
the only illumination in the country
where light is already extinguished.
Lead us not into temptation. Deliver us
for we cannot resist the Siren
highways – how they beckon
from the maps; how they fly
through the Shield; how they sing
to the tires. Asphalt, concrete,
gravel – each a different tune,
our low, sweet dirge.

The Coyote on the Killarney Road

He steps out of thistles
and bracken up onto the asphalt,
stands in the road til you stop,
walks around to the driver’s
door, looks you in the…