synanpses 4
By David Diaz
Inspired by Kenneth Srivijitakkar’s oil painting “Bright Lights”

The parking lot remains
quiet as the aged evening
draped about it—

perfect, permanent, and imprecise.

Lights like dried spring
flowers before heavy breathing,
patient for their perfect angle
-hardened forceful fingers
will entertain the sepals,
allay them open and steal
behind the pedals
to explode all into dust:
dandelion lashes blended into murk,
into darkness only pinkish orange dare resist.

If the Darkness comes
there will only be the building
lights. The heavy breath will circle back
in search of better prospect
to be met by moistened dearth.
Like viscous sighs,
sometimes-sounds of plastics
will scrape the opal blacktop,
to be hushed and swallowed by the open
empty sky.

The ground drinks heavily
the wet. It throws the smell
between the Jersey barriers
to beckon day’s break,
to guide the early.
Sand and dust crunched
loudly underneath
their balding tires,
as each finds the closest spot.

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