Getting There

Up ahead, a night without sleep.

Up ahead, a self-fulfilling prophecy,

which includes a mortician’s off-key laughter

and full measure of the horsefly.

“We’re on a road,” I tell my shadow,

that laggard falling behind, the one trembling

at the thought of approaching night.

I peer from the runnels of my sadness . . .

Up ahead, a wedding cake on fire.

The undertaker, waving his black pamphlets.

A hill with a bloody gash in it.

“We’re no farther along,” I inform my angel.

She answers with an immense silence.

She winks. She beckons with a crooked finger.