when you ride all night
on the new jersey turnpike
slicing your soul
on a wet knife,
you're bound to bleed
and leave a shadow river
in your concrete wake.
Perhaps there's a gift
in the gait of your horse,
or a curse tucked tight
in your purse—
but if you can face
the unbroken horizon
without a tremble or quake,
are you truly existing?
in the gait of your horse,
or a curse tucked tight
in your purse—
but if you can face
the unbroken horizon
without a tremble or quake,
are you truly existing?
my veins negotiate
with the mirror
and I have no say
in the matter
if I see tomorrow
without blaming my mind
on time.