Purgatory

 

A dove, stared down

by the eyes beneath the scowl on a grill

molded in chrome on a guiltless machine…

 

I could swear I’m driving toward heaven,

an ’85 Chevette

struggling against a wintry mountain’s decedent slope

this tarmac night.

 

But exits keep decreasing,

and when the final gate passes,

a new set begins.

 

Day has broken,

shattered into an indistinct light above the clouds,

the dove flew off when I blinked

an instantaneous swapping of moon and sun,

and now I run this road

stuck in someone’s headlights,

flapping like hell.