At the Detroit Bus Station, 4 A.M
by Steve Klepetar

you feel the night
burn, but not like stars singe
white holes through the sky.
More like the way smoke
stings your eyes, smoldering
from wet or rotten wood, heat
and sharp smell turning you

from the red center of flame.
Have you come to rest at last
in this vast hall? All night
you have traveled west, staring
at great burning eyes.
Even in your dreams
they prowl, rushing shadowed
bodies back through silence.

Now your new bus climbs
the highway, slicing through fog
and lake mist.
Too late you have returned
blinking like one awakened
by music of angels
shrunk to a final red point
glinting in smoke-steel dawn.

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