John Gosslee

Knocking on the Night Sky

John Gosslee

I’m leaving the islands, the jugular of the universe pumps through the rising sun.

The highline interstate above the water perks out of green, the wind pushes my hand back in the car.

The gulls circle the landfill, nothing gets out of the lips sealed around the water bottle.

I’m propped up on corn chips and caffeine folded in the infinite night.

The weight of my feet in the floorboard, the metal around the windows unfold in the dark and I long for another rotation of the wheel to get it right.