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Driving in the Rain

This is when the world could end—about three
           in the afternoon on a blacktop in Mississippi,
the sky darkening as if conjuring night, black thoughts
           flying from the woods like crows or rattlesnakes in the grass,
and in that dark cathedral of clouds a purple god strikes
           at the aimless world—trucks hauling potato chips,
children swarming in overgrown yards, grandmothers dreaming of days
           in the kitchen, canning peaches or making blackberry
jam while the world goes wild with summer. O take me
           away to another shore, a newfound land, my America, sea
of dust washed by the thunder gods, roads so narrow the oaks curl,
           make a tunnel like the one between worlds—
the one we see and the one we think we see and the one
           hiding behind every tree on the road's dark bone.

Barbara Hamby

Hanging Loose


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