Black rubber, black road, white stripe, grit of gravel,
music interrupting the assault of wind on a half-rolled window,
in the distance, suspended above it, the world melts.
The bounce, bounce, bounce of balls
calling each day,
echoing into its flat resistance.
Offering its peculiar tarry incense
to the child lying on her back,
In the still, headlamp lit night,
the dark ocean around a big box store,
the loneliness of the freeway blowing by.
Knowing burnt rubber
and the knees of children.
The quiet of a hotel pool in winter,
the space inside the mouth,
wrapping up the earth.
by Lisa Jones