The distances have composed a message
that will continue to become clearer
as it rolls toward you, some days
silently, all oil and promise

and at other times the scraping
is overwhelming. Otherwise it blinks
like decaying neon on a roadside bar & grille.
Once Ruscha-like it dared resistance.

Hey, doc have the wheels come off?
We do fade in and out of coherence
as twilight approaches on its sliding
Potemkin boards of dismal science.

Placated by the tips of trees counted
out the windows flipping by on the ride
to dissolute summer and its relentless
beating against all tranquil defenses

brings to irresolution a quiet coma
and drinks at the picnic table. Light
chatter of no consequence follows the crumbs,
& bees, our knees touching to comfort our hearts.