Sometimes you wake me from my dream with a low, trembling moanthat rises almost to a scream before I wake you from your own.Then you describe it in detail, as if to make it come untrue— the smoke or silence or betrayal that just occurred to you.This morning, though, you didn’t seem to want to …
Then there’s crush hour, which comes and goes on quieter tires. Again the traffic slowsas residential streets congest with Fordsthe same age as their drivers, rolling towards houses they will pointedly roll by.Their low beams are embarrassing the sky.The orangina sun has ducked behinda middle school, and will come out to blind only the girl …