The tender wipers whisper back and forth, smearing the rain to a moment's clarity flattened like the fallen leaf honeyed to our advancing glass. The rain advances. 5 Trees stand out like lightning in our wet headlights--- finding anything is a minor miracle in this beery weather, the old road a yawn of steam. Staccato your voice dissects Milton's lunar prosody, moon-smooth, moon-real: 10 "all his sullen adjectives were mere minks, like Ivana Trump's dead furs, a comfort in her sleep...." Sweating and smiling in our nightlong drive from bar to bar, I microscopically examine the copper hinged jaw of a fly, bright 15 on the inner windshield as I drive; too soberly drunk to tend or exhaust inspiration.
From the collection "Red Bank"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.