The motorway is half asleep and I’ve driven through the night on late night radio and coffee. My mind invents images to fill in the blanks and I’m past the accident before I wake. Through the side window a faceless woman cries next to a car with no wheels. A policeman holds a baby, I cannot tell if it’s living or dead. The wipers make an arc and the nightmare is swept into subconscious. Wheels hiss. At home the door has too many hinges and locks. I step into a porch that ferments with boots and darkness trips my feet. Suddenly the image of the woman clots in my throat like broken glass and sugar. Should I call someone? I dither at a crossroads I can’t even define as the sky turns the colour of petrol.
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