By Grace McAllister | Poetry | Spring 2019
1010 WINS makes me sicker in a tunnel, canned voices grate
the same way as the too-fast orange lights.
My dad drives in quiet sympathy.
Everything seems too fast and too slow at once
Or not too slow, but too fast and too empty,
Like leaving town gives every detail an unearned gravity
Which makes the face of each passing building so overwhelmingly rich
That I know I’ll remember none of it.
Before dawn, the whole world gleams
like wet pavement, and every light is the diluted reflection of a light.
All weak and watery
