Light And Time

I wear exhaustion like yesterday’s shirt; passing minutes smart like a cut beneath the fingernail, while a ribbon of concrete unfurls along the ground in the Winter noonlight I am driving, my knuckles drag along the ground at 80 miles an hour…

I have visited this certain California time so many times that it might as well be a place—Sundays, Saturdays, even sometimes Wednesdays, not every day; it sneaks up on time, jumps into rotation and then bleaches the day in its light…

As I reach a summit—heading West, deep from East—and as the freeway tumbles out before me the valley yawns oceanward, and I feel the bladed glint of sun on ocean shimmer and light itself stings beneath my eyelids just like my fingernail…

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