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I-95 (Nocturne)

It’s still dark out. A small lamp burns

in the corner of the room.

And I can hear the highway from here,

like the sea softly ebbing

and surging. Cars, buses, the rumble

of delivery trucks. They pass by

all through the night. The never-ending haste

of humanity. And who are they?

Truckers? Murderers? Factory men?

Young lovers? People with lives

not unlike mine, pass by all through the night.

While sleeplessly I sit up

reading an old book of poems,

beautiful Greek poems. My woman sleeping

in the other room. Seven years

in this house. Fifteen months

behind on the mortgage.

The book soon falls from my hands,

like everything else. The highway still humming.

The never-ending haste

of cargo vans, SUVs, motorcycles.

Americans,

blazing a trail. To

where? For what? Softly the sounds

swim over me.

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Grounded

The great Greek lion tragedy

is at hand. The quantum cosmic elements

are all converging, closing in

on me. This personality, that wailing

war, your changeling desire. The ugly

animal head of some uglier

animal Fate is beginning to show its face.

I need to get away.

And get far away.

To Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin.

The closest thing to suicide

I can think of: to say goodbye

to everything, and travel

alone. To London, or Oslo.

To yet another spiritual self-dismemberment.

I need to solve myself

abroad. I need to think I can be solved

sylvan and renewed. In Venice,

or Novgorod. Dublin,

Athens. Anywhere but home,

where my heart’s a prune, all bruised and old.

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Bio:

M.P. Powers is a Floridian living in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of The Initiate (Anxiety Press, Fall, 2023) and Strange Instruments (Forthcoming ’25). Recent publications include the Columbia Review, Black Stone/White Stone, Stone Circle Review, miniMag, and others. His artwork can be found on both Twitter and Instagram @mppowers1132

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