NO RIDERS IN A STORM
All alone on the dreaming
highway, a single man
stares at a midnight of wheat.
These western roads lead
across a shimmering prairie
made of sundogs and heavy storms.
First, the rain; then comes the nightmare.
Hitch-hiker in a thunderhead,
you have only the night, only the rain.
clacked staccato its big hammer,
and silver nails pounded the horizon.
These western roads
go nowhere, go into the storm.
Then they leave you alone,
the last bird in a blue dark world.