Midnight, Highway 401 East by Kevin Irie

Midnight. Through the car window,
tail lights flare like matches struck against

the pane’s stained grit.
Each lone light: the collective plural

of the many directions heading
for home. The speed of the highway

drives the rate of your heart.
Accelerate slowly. Stars are headlights

parked far back in dim vacant lots
of old drive-in movies

where clouds drift like smoke from
James Dean’s crash. Time holds us the way

hours hold time. The full moon:
a hubcap wedged in the sky.

— from Juniper Volume 6, Issue 2