I start to dream I am waking
and wake with a start from the dream.
Shadows gather in the attic,
in the hallways, bedrooms, walls:
their smell, like gas, is everywhere.
I start to dream I am waking . . .
Night falls, then falls again
as if drunk, as if slipping on ice
while clothed in leaves whose
damp mass could drag telephone poles
to their knees. The rain is cold.
Its secrets flood the throat of the gutter.
Childishly, the voice in my head
continues to give me the wrong directions.
Left at the next exit, it says. No, the next one.
I want to wring the little bastard’s neck.
The sky is gray. If I make it to daylight,
I’m never taking this blasted road again.