I’m at an exit ramp.
Behind me, orange haze
slants across a stadium of faces.
A horse lopes from indigo to yellow,
from where mockingbirds caw
to street lights on angled rows.
Ahead, a tornado.
Its approaching shadow
stretches the setting sun.
If I count memories as dreams,
a beacon delegates red.
If not, my future’s a forced line:
she’ll never return, not even as ghost.
Photo By: vjpaul
