(no subject)

[tigrerossa]

I have seen Medusa
on the interstate,
her head of snakes like shredded plastic bag,
her face of weathered concrete,
a despairing, lonely hag.

I looked into her face and
do I turn to stone? I ask
--as the red lights
blink out messages--
and I gas
and brake and gas
and pray
for space.

The overhanging trees
seem to stifle:
there is enough moss
to cover all our graves,

and the nausea that is born
of breathing in the city;
it comes and goes in waves.

The gum, and fumes,
the diesel plumes;

the dismal
gray of
urban moons.

I have seen Medusa,
torn as she is,
grimacing with open teeth.

She tells me of the afterlife
in whispers when I'm half asleep.