In another age, another country,
this would be hallowed:
a burnt out blue Mercedes
on the apron of a desert highway,
seared not by fire, but light,
its unblemished azure parched
by centuries of sun, cherry
leather bucket-seats atrophied
like old cupped hands.
O merciful blaze, drought’s deliverer,
thief of colour, bleach this car
as pale as alabaster, delicate
as porcelain. Push it to the point
of bone, sculpt it to the flute
skull of a prehistoric lizard,
so fine that a breeze could
powder it away. Mercy me,
I could search this beast all day,
not for amulets: rabbit’s foot
in glove-box, worry beads
suspended from the mirror,
a dead-language magazine,
not for relics, signs, or clues
about the driver, not for his
half-credible, half-creditable story,
more for some memento mori.
|