It's only four o'clock
This Tuesday morning
I'm awake as I would be
If it were four o'clock
Middle of the afternoon.
De Kalb County Line:
That's far away, they say,
But not when you're racing a meteor shower
Through the rear window of Bruce's car
Running away from bright lights
Buildings and glass and street
To corn and start and silos
Where a comet's flaming rocks
Make Emily say cool again and again.
Tearing through Illinois' blackest sky
Over red, blue and green sleeping bags
Covered in ice from body condensation
In frozen cold November air.
And I probably should be hypothermic
But Noelle's toes chatter wildly
All around my ankles and calves
And everyone I know is fast asleep
Under warm duvets and flannel sheets.
Not for a second would I give this up:
Squirming on the edge of a cornfield
Watching these tiny points of light
Aas they race across the wildest universe
Their silver trains inviting all aboard.
And in the morning, Venus blooms
Presiding over pure pink light
And farmers and truckers
Who drive toward a flamingo moon or iris sun.
When the cornstalks fill our visible horizon
And Bruce's waking breath blows white on air,
Our frozen hands bundle up a frozen tarp
And we drive much further home to pray
From the De Kalb County Line.