the gray cloud Shining at 6 p.m. on a winding appalachian road

D. R. Wormack

the dying light after sunset,

when the clouds appear

in a backlit collage with pink hope

illuminating the fragrant atmosphere furthest away,

i cling to.

like reading without a lamp in the last light,

eyes stretching aching pushing past

labyrinthian hedges of shadow

to only show one word highlighted

on the arbor pulp maze of letter,

reading in spite of

what it might do

to my eyes, i don’t think

i could see to begin with,

i’ve never read in the light

because in that almost darkness almost hell almost

night stars shine brighter than

that dull carcass of grey sunlight,

and i can see that one word

that shines despite being copied with

the same ink on the same press

as every other word on the page,

like a spotlight it shines.

that is why i watch the sky

when i drive in that purgatory twilight

nestled strangely alone in my car,

that is how i love.

i ignore the twisting hills,

the washed away white lines.

i can’t feel the chill of the steering wheel.

i can’t see the lonely tears streaming

from my eyes, asking to do it over,

to make the u-turn, to return

to a less lonely time. i look up

and i only see a cloud against the dull sky,

i know it’s the only other thing

on that drive,

far from each other, we’re alone in the world

waiting for time to melt

the horizon between us.

no matter how long i drive,

that cloud Shining at 6 p.m.

on a winding appalachian road

will still be in my sky.

---

2023.