Car Chase

You’re driving over black snow and blood of the vanquished, night the colour of tar-paper shanties.

You’re racing through the Land of Nod, past the last tree left on Earth, through ghost towns of America.

You’re leaving Underland behind, a state of hypotheticals and fiction. A nation of flies.

Drive, they said, and you are driven, the radio squawking, a broken moon in ascent, stars accusatory and naked.

As is meant to be, you’re being followed, a source of light gracing the horizon. What riches lie beyond? What mountains?

Bruce McRae