The windshield has bug guts smeared

there’s a circus tent by the highway –

flea market or revival, hard to tell

.

Dawn stretches into muggy morning

careening towards where I don’t want to go

the sky looks like my bruised heart

.

I can’t bear music so I hear my breath

and my car rattles forward, like me

a second-rate girl in a shabby world

bees in clover

a dozen shades of blue

shimmering across the lake

dancing clouds swallowing the sky

red-winged blackbirds frolicking

the way summer should be

with a breeze beneath a tree

laughter not far away

a small victory of green

Staring at the underside

of nimbus clouds,

watching for a sliver of light

of rain of a new voice

to sing an old hymn

Reaching without moving

beneath dazzling stars

wishing to hold onto

the same quiet relief

of night through the day

We can call our savior

whatever we like

because labels are irrelevant

and anything we make

is within reason.

Dusky hues settle 

pulled by wings of starlings 

across a turbulent sky 

beyond the realm of reason 

or need to ask why; 

pulled by wings of starlings 

dreams rise as night sings.