«On the road, between Toledo & Cincinnati, late June» heiter dette trykkjande diktet av Sebastian Matthews. Eg har òg køyrt den vegen, Matthews veit kva han pratar om.
Somewhere dead center in the day’s drive
through this relentlessly flat state, the sky
darkens and fills up deepend blue,
and the word «rain» comes to your lips
twenty seconds before the first waterballoon
droplets hit; and before you can think
or turn and say «storm» here it comes
spilling out of its box like a load of grain.
The woman in the passenger seat
of a raggedly elegant convertible, top down,
laughs merrily, purse held over her head.
Motorcycles cluster under the awnings
of bridges, five, six, a whole family of Harleys:
Middle Americans for a brief spell
hobos, gathering around the fire
of manageable happenstance. We’ll all
make it through. No twister coming to life
out of the yellowing swirl. No pile-up crash
in our cards. The rain subsiding, wipers
knocked back to intermittent, you drive on
through the burgeoning heat: crows
congregating in the backyards of trees,
fireworks stockpiling in the beds of pickups,
young girls towed behind speedboats
in inner tubes, shouting to each other
as they pass over the rotting corpse
of a deer that, a year-rounder told,
finally fell after a long winter
through the melting ice and settled
uneasily on the lake bottom.
Frå We Generous, 2007
Siste kommentarar