A Highway Makes a Long Sigh

// Richard Lighthouse

words have a certain dry air
roll down the window and take it in
— like desert passage.
tires wheeze at each mile; ; ;

semicolons of distance.
white stripes dodge the car in
repeating metaphor.

black tar heaves its sulfur smell
then thump over a dead word carcass.

see it in the rear view?

the car is your
steel cocoon and upon arrival you will
metamorphose. capitalize.

this poem is a place you
have never been.
and still can’t spell.