BLEARY

IAN C. WILLIAMS

 
 

A dense curtain, this
rain displaces the red of the stoplight;
these ripples on the windshield
curve the dusk—or nearly dawn?—
I’m not sure anymore. Eyes
 
heavy as though
coated with translucent quilts, the hazy
blur of shower curtains. There’s something
swimming between the highway
streetlights. No, rub your eyes
 
old man. It’s only a stray
eyelash.
 
I don’t see the headlights, I only
hear the shattering
crash, the wind chime shower
of glass—
                        then nothing.

 

 
 

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