I roll down the ghost road
in this time of quickening twilight,
uncaring of the mundane day.
A fifth part of me sober, in control,
but in the main,
I am swayed
by the lowness of the sundering clouds.
The cloistered scene.
There’s a strange sense of foreboding,
of a going down to the dark roots of guarded secrets,
unknowing all else.
This stays and presses,
saying settle, settle.
Though please,
I do not want to know you.
Nor you to know me.