Driving Into the Sun

Dec 5 2015

Driving into the sun

the windshield scatters light.

Each imperfection in glass

is illuminated,

scratched, chipped, smeared

where the wipers skipped,

tiny pits

refracting rainbows.

Squinting hard

I flip the visor, tighten my grip;

the white line

slipping invisibly by.

When into shadow, just as quick

the world comes clear,

the sheet of glass

immaterial.

Cutting into dusk

smooth as buffed and tapered steel.

Enclosing me

in its calm interior.

Bathed

in the dashboard glow

of cool blues, ghostly greens.

Asphalt, glistening black.

The fizz of rain, wipers slap,

radio

cooing jazz.

I like the movement between sight and sound.

I like the hermetic feel of the car's interior: the slick windshield and sound-deadening material; the slightly hypnotic feel.

If this were a movie, it would be a cliché: the usual downtown street after dark, with the rain-slick pavement reflecting the light of store-fronts and passing cars.

A close reading might raise the question of how the scene so suddenly -- and fortuitously -- turns from sun to rain. A sun shower? break in the weather? The setting sun, peeking out in the distance where the cloud doesn't quite meet the horizon? My answer is "poetic license". It's poetry, after all, so the normal rules of story-telling don't strictly apply. Very different from narrative, I'm more interested in imagery and sound than logic and plot.