Northbound
       

A township has no zip code,
only a number
to indicate itself as it exists — elusive and "out there,"
unacceptable, but,
admit it, where you long to be.

You have to black out the world in order to live.
The warning sign said 7 miles.
Where therefore unto reeking havoc.

A soul-mate mates only once
before it dies. Black mending spots
across the highway. Plastic bandages
crossed across each eye.

Buckle down into the sound of years
passing, redwing blackbirds falling,
neat little rows, yellow lines . . .

The highway goes on forever
until forgotten. Then blood
inside the fingers. And in the face,
bones where bones must be.

And strewn in shards — stark eyes
of glittering glass —
in a field of broken masks,
the last breath
of winter.

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Copyright © 2014 Edward Nobles All rights reserved
from Boulevard
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission