Rushing highways of summer; Emerald haze
and golden morning motion blur
to the still image and scent of dust catching fire.
Upon realizing this dream is the afterlife, finally,
you stop sweating—
no longer sitting, no longer sticking, flesh on vinyl,
and all you wear are souvenir postcards and tears
discarded by some lost mystery, from a paperback
Choose Your Own Adventure,
you set down after drowning on page 92.
But what other death could you expect
after making that Journey Under the Sea?
You worried that you might forget beauty someday;
How the mile markers glowed
more at dusk
than at any other time of day
You promised yourself
not to forget 58 – 57 – 56 – REST AREA – bag of chips.
But here you are, reliant on the film strip
casting shadows on a wall you are forced to stare,
because turning your head this deep inside of dream
is physically impossible. And besides, go back to line 5.
You are already dead. The wall, it seems, is either casket
or your own shut eyes, or perhaps a pair of silver dollars.
How much money, do you suppose, is buried beneath the ground?
Ask Mr. Owl. The world may never know.