Salt Crusted on Automotive Glass

Salt Crusted on Automotive Glass
Photographs from Bigstock. Photo montage by William Shunn.

Between me, safe in my seat on this bus,

And the decadent majesty of the salmon-red cliffs of eastern Utah,

A ghost landscape stands sentinel,

As if etched into the glass by a cadre of capering goblins.

The residue of a hasty window washing—

Loops and whorls of dirt left untouched, uncleansed,

Unrepentant, at the bottom of the glass on each fluid upstroke—

It sparkles, gritty and salt-sharp in the oblique sunlight,

Like a series of pearly solar flares,

Or a graph of the desert’s pulsebeat,

Or spectral negatives of a washed-out sandstone arch,

Photographed in stages over eons of time—

Snapshots from a child-god’s flip-book—

Frothing, leaping, peaking, then falling back into the ground

Like fountains of earth,

A time-lapse planetary signature

That will melt and return to dust

With the next unlikely rain.  




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I make it my general practice not to drink and write. At least, I try not to drink when writing fiction.
On a Folksy Painting of Kids Throwing Die, Harlem

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Tap tap tap foretold the stoop’s cartomancy ahead. Green worms ravage the expected shrine, bend moonward & escape.


Swilling coffee on the roof of a Motel 6, sleepy, thinking of ham and biscuits and another cup.


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