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breach the double glazing of the balcony
smell the dew glimmering under communist street lights
leaded glass neatly spread on the highway
and frogs and crickets and other odes of the night.

there is a place where every car that cuts the 4 am molasses heads to
see their headlights dilate when they take that turn near the
rood of the village - the eyes of a gargantuan cat
that blind and mute and turn you inside out
like a glove
until your head pulsates with only light, only once
like the beam of a beacon
then the night holds its tongue further.

every car that kisses the asphalt of the witching hours
leaves an open portal behind until
its gust is heard no more:
front of the house
edge of the road
the limp, putrid fence ;
bounded by twin walnut trees, a world splits open.
a murky, oozing wound between
two glowing halves of an eggshell.

jump in, jump out.
I know where every car that cuts the 4 am molasses heads to.