the concrete road

 

still dark and darkening night, the dead cold of dying winter,

rain against the windscreen, speed in easy, selfish solitude.

my shirt gives up the scent of soap.

(i have no other dream.)

 

noise surrounds me, the oil-ribbed sounds of a lost summer,

the meaningless bypass between here and some other place.

yet hands formed this path.

(i have no other dream.)

 

a dead orchestra in Bonn works magic from the 80s, stops,

dresses me in excess; red leather, black velvet, purple lace.

there’s meaning in melancholy.

(i have no other dream.)

 

blow a horn to warn of danger, sound the town’s sirens,

let her rise to war, make battle plans, strengthen forts,

map no retreat.

(i have no other dream.)