floodlight sonatas
white spark backdrop
off the forms seduced by blackness,
I hate travelling at night
unable to stomach the singing of the lonely road
or the whispers
of a deadman’s mouth harp in the breeze
bringing on premonitions of sudden engine failure
and,
how the halogen lamps ruin the night
and sometimes expose the
memories you’re running from
I see the faces
I dare not speak of in focus
as my ritual humming of nursery rhymes
keeps in time with a pounding in my chest
desperate, until I reach my destination,
that the hairy hands in the back seat
won’t materialise from my
retrospective sins
and take a deserved piece of me
or merely,