crash

a road like a vein,

coursing through nowhere:

the night is dark and slippery,

oily black with a low moon.

there are eyes in the trees,

their trunks bowed low—

my fingers lock together;

white knuckle fear.

voices,

garbled and inhuman,

piercing through

the radio.

shadows moving,

sinuous and wicked,

lurching and jerking.

tires kicking up

gravel,

spinning on

gizzards

and worms

and bones.

the night,

dark

and oily

and slippery,

on my skin like a film

until there is only

fog and screams.