Some ghost is restless, stirring out
at the treeline,
sleepless twists in a fever dream,
seeking calm where your eye
focused out the window, looked
to figure the shapes
at the edge of the brush,
in the witching hour mist,
patched with gold and pitch black,
with a message still
sounding untrue.
Your eyes start to speak words
that your mouth won't,
and something at the center
of your vision is betraying
what your mind sees, another day
the silence hung in the air.
You work
your head into my chest
as the highway continues,
back to familiar streets.
Off-ramp lights
passed and alternated
in a blurred vision of
summer trees, swaying
in the stormtime wind,
dawn opening like an aura around
the highway, where you see it
at the east, through the trees;
the wind in a dance
with your hair, in every direction.