We exited the roadhouse,
a rural gas station-restaurant hybrid
into a more uncanny night.
Street lamps and houses illuminated
only a brief dark cutaway
surrounding us
like a snow-globe’s psychic wall.
A collection of proud flags fluttered
atop a nearby pole;
signals, reminders of where we really were.
In an invisible wind,
they somehow cracked like whips, striking me.
It was late November, but
the air was warm, liquid and unusual.
My skin and body melted,
dissolved into the watery evening,
particulated and powdered
then agitated:
lifted in the invisible wind
and circled, swirled around,
above the rundown roadhouse
and to the edges of the spotlight.
I settled, spread across the ground
before a voice calling to break my focus
compelled me to materialize
and return.
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