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Coupe DeVille


I wake up in the dark with my head knocking
the back window. We're plowing through pasture,
grass whistling and scraping under the car,

so high it's all I see. Everyone's asleep.
Then wham—before I can say anything
we all hit the ceiling. The driver stands up

on the brake, slinging us over the ruts
like a bumped record needle—Then crickets,
a halo of dust. Spun around now,

we squint down the wide ragged furrow
the Caddy carved, as far as the lights allow,
and into that seamless dark where, drifting off,

we must have broken through. The Caddy drops
into gear, heaves, its torquey murmur
low as a lover's pulling us out of a dream.


Austin Segrest

32 Poems

Fall / Winter 2012


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