God’s jaw lowered onto the valley,
would be one way to say it, the day
buckled so tight into the horizon it bled.
Too much time to describe
evening’s first flicker when waiting
for a tow, the Pontiac’s low-slung body
breathing smoke over the weeds.
Across the highway, what had once been
a general store held up its last neon sticks:
burnt out Bud Light and a yellow hexagon
advertising CRUSH. Do they still make that?
The man with me shrugged. In his hand,
an hour’s worth of Queen Anne’s lace.
If you could put the sky in a soda can,
its aftertaste would burn your lips.
He dropped his flowers into the road.
Petals blew out with passing exhaust,
each reddened in the pimento light.