Parallel Lanes

Down, down, down the middle.
Lane white. Snowless winter black.
Hours of radio rot.
I'm zooming out, and then in,
into some other field of vision,
into some other sense of being.
Parallel lanes is where we ride.
There's a gospel sounding in the dark,
sounding between the pines and the furs.
My tongue is a dried up almanac page,
my eyes, a zodiac.
A speeding car passes.
As it flies by I notice a crow by the wheel.
It's got a crazed stare.