you sit on the hood of your car,
an orange duster with black stripes,
faded sunken steel that reeks
of leaking oil, decaying vinyl,
bad shocks, bald tires, rust —

while stardust particles suspend
in blue-black gelatin dark,
and drunk streetlights flicker
as your bottles spin careening 
end over end, to arc high and shatter 
in distant compressed reports —

amid closed shops and empty lanes, 
the sweet summer wind 
of a country town —

and this —

dull erratic muttering of self,
endless mental humming of self,
tossing, turning, gnashing self,
alone in the moonlight and silence.