monday, may 19

monday night driving home from work

the sun degrees above the hills, the light
through my cracked and abraded windshield
like a substance, like a medium,
some kind of structure in the air, subsuming
the air, shining through in places from behind the thin,
threadworn quilting of the day,
the bleached out hide of everything

the hills green for that hanging instant
before the west remembers itself
as the edge of a desert and me with
the window down, punching radio presets in
some thin imitation of the idea
that i might be surprised