Winter 1990 • Vol. XII No. 1 Poetry |

City Lights

Today on the north beltway in my rearview mirror a powder beige Mercedes grazed a big black car then rolled over twice in air, before bouncing down sideways, to be slammed by a trailer truck into the guardrail. I was one half mile farther through the afternoon, the late sun suffusing everything, concrete and sky, to a watered-down mescal, when it even occurred some action of mine might be required. Ambulances, mystical, imposing clangs, were surely already setting out like pulsing antibodies to cleanse the scene. It is this way with things— back home tonight, I celebrate my return with a somewhat larger Canadian Club which, after that first deep bee sting, neat on the back of the tongue, really is vaguely like velvet. Through my 2nd story complex window, the mercury arc lights bathe my face orchid, and bathe each oleander, oak and sidewalk beneath them as lovely a shade of lavender as any beginning abrasion or Wal-Mart parking lot. There

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