The Sense You Made

Early Autumn, late night,
One of the last handfuls of pleasant evenings,
 Springwater sesh, pens aflutter, over-pumped ink making One think
“Really? OK, glubs next time”
Crooks of fingers gone blackface and incriminating.
The smells of leaves and rivers and moonlight.
Crickets and frogs chiming in twixt Burial tracks.
Their sounds, these smells,
this empty,
moonlit trail

A lonely moth pulls into the beam of my bike light,
Races and paces me for an erratic few moments,
Then casually throws itself into the spinning spokes of my front wheel,
Presumably now left to a crippled and slow death in my wake,
On the trail.
Considering the scarcity of traffic at this late hour,
I’m inclined to believe that God needed
that particular moth dead for a very good reason.
And I am the bringer of Godly justice
and unblinking wrath.

Beyond that duty,
Three glasses of wine have afforded me the luxury to
Appreciate the serenity and solitude of this late night,
Middle of nowhere as I pull over,
Turn off the lights,
And piss into the dark. Alone.
My mind refreshingly free from thoughts of zombies
And being raped to death by hobos.

All of this
Reaching back into my mind
and forcing me,
once again,
to miss the sense you made.