Here’s new poem in early draft form. Think winter driving here; think year’s end, and such.
DRIVER’S SEAT, LATE DECEMBER
to your eyes, the windshield, from white-knuckle
hunched here, is each hung-over morning’s first sour-fogged glimpse
since drink one. navigation’s a thick-lidded blank
blinking, a near-crying shame; everything fulsome with
nothing but opacity’s weeping;
glances awash. your stomach? tight
as those tenacious grannies you’ll later find snaked
in your tossed shoes’ abstruse lacing. you intuit winter’s
rain racing – against itself – into you, frantic to undo
some small thing. you can’t – you’ll grant – see,
and fear the tyres as rain-moled in their search
for purchase on asphalt. as, all for naught, your hands pull at the steering
wheel, struggle to agree on a true meaning for over.