Homecoming
On shattering glass
water slips
splits
under sodium orange.
Charred shells of cars
salute the alive,
dirges
drummed on asphalt.
Relief stirs guilt
as we drive on
rub legs
touch bolts,
Our significance marred
like colored lichen
fading
in autumn sleet.
Discharge
The tomato swells under
summer sun and I sit
Hot tar, hot asphalt
the sizzle of dark
in the car watching gnats
swarm cracked fields.
as it spreads from
earth to mind:
I smell smoke and
clouds circle like
lost wreathes, haze
filtering light to red.
Baubles fall
Grasses burst
and shatter
into flame, the side
from the tree,
of the highway
tomatoes burst:
a chute of fire.
It’s been years
since I remembered
The sky on
your teeth, nights at Mars with
gas stations.
its rusted
You were rust and
air and dust:
fume, broken
Stuck in
metal and scent of
traffic,
lemon.
exhaust
The separation has
grown, we are so
exhausted:
Tomatoes rot,
far from the beginning.
dissolve to
earth.
Flames arc across trees.
E.W.I. Johnson is a poet living and working in Chicago. He is currently earning his MFA at Northwestern University.