Brian Eckert

The sun in my pocket won’t go down.

How can I sleep?

I cannot live like this,

said humanity as it was borne from ash and bone and blood.

I want to drive the backroads,

take the shortcut past your front porch,

wave hello.

The brakes don’t work.

I cannot stop.

I cannot live like this.

I want to be a postcard in a country store that you send to your mother.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I was driving the back roads,” you’ll write,

and send me off,

and finally I’ll have a destination.

I will be a reminder of the blood

that surges and swells in the

eternity of consciousness,

endless river

flowing past your front porch.

I want to be a sun in your pocket that won’t go down,

won’t let you sleep,

as you drive the back roads

trying to outswim the blood,

trying to find a way to live like this.