sherm's march (a revision)



I drive in redress through red, diesel dusk.

Blood sapped of conscience, not escaping the lane.

Fractious, I creep the fringes, sealed by otherness.

The joke wind issuing hard on my mirror

whirls ashes, wafts through interior space.

Adrift beyond mute psychosis, I whisper

a black psalm of rocks, scoping girls in parking lots.