Some things to be lost at sea.

They'll fall out of pockets

to disappear

in snow covered fields

along the highway

on an interstate,

cars lose control and slide

on far stretches of ice sheets,

to be lost and forgotten

as are the items that fall from pockets

to be buried in frost

to erode,

to be hidden in thought.

Forget the burned finger edge

from the fastened cigarettes,

the loose life crashes against you,

waves smell of burning rubber

down highways covered in white,

Some nights the highways are empty canals

with frostbitten roadkill

waiting to cross to the other side

few hoping to be delivered a number of feet

from the hopeless rush

of midnight light.

There are nights

like wild rushing rivers

that sweep along the countryside

through dreams of wild slivers

sitting on the carcasses of washing machines

watching colours erupt

in firework lights down the interstate- in the distance,

emptied serene flights.

Waiting for the endless engines

to stop in the dark

holding the breath,

not knowing when to dream

where the Fall weathers the skin-

you'll feel it beside burning trees

as they, too,

die at times

but burn within many dreams.

We've been lost

as yesterday's snow

rushing down the roads

past hopeful

down

to cover the ground, where-

in night, through a park-

birds

whistling

over a patch of paper:

letters to hopeless love,

now hidden to vanish

underneath the pale moon,

just like the snowflakes in New York state.