Winter 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1986 |

Night Drive

The old dispute; do we think in wordsor images that words find? Last nightdriving through the black hollowsof prairie between small townsyou passed a refinery's big stack,aimed at the moon, blowing a flamelong enough to gutter the horizonlike a candle bowl; someone, you thought,had told you once of this place;of the earth roaring grief, the wind,tearing at the high flameand night's walls scorched red—orwas it only speech that haunted you,a remembered tongue whose heatflung words to tatters, raggedas this banner of flame, wildas her yellow hair in wind?

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