Harlow Barton

whistling through Thursday night
in a cigar shaped automobile
wind licking his hair, lips pulled
back over a neat set of teeth
grinding sticks of blue gum the wind
combs his hair past the
laundromat dishwasher microwave
joint blessed by streetlamps
extending their right hands
over his glowing head in
flickering baptism bullets under
the rainy bridge pavement unravels
beyond headlights just
where thought it would the
cigar-car eats hills eats tar
gravel bottle caps hardly stops to
eat a hamburger in the dim
diner don't even picture
the car stopping don't even picture
the passenger seat there is none
one little Buddha on the dashboard
one case of beer in the backseat
one furry hand on the steering wheel
another tapping time on hot red
flank of the scream
winking into the wind winding into a
dark green valley little cottages
with sleepy blue windows little
foxes leave a field in a line
and long headlights filter the
pocket from its dusk accuse
the air of its dark cigar-car
tongues black dips with
pools of black in their bottoms
and hoses the dregs poof into
a cloud of bats tornadoes among
sleepy cottages Barton splits
clawed night
the swooping nose of his chariot