The Highway
Phebe Davidson

Its leafing incomplete, 
wisteria gleams like fruit in nighttime trees. 
The moldy scent of woodrat climbs.

There is an urgency 
of tear and glut, a rankness of blood 
on the asphalt—glittering, acrid, warm— 

all the brightwork stars 
colliding overhead, wasted sparks cascading 
in the farthest reach of space.

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