refinery lights

low beneath the bruise of midnight, beneath the flight patterns

and the sweeping headlights drawing apart the ceiling of clouds,

close to the hush of highway, it never gets dark; not in even the

smallest corner, light seeping its way through the dirty doors of

the local diner, light blinding halogen from the gas station by the

turnpike exit, harsh and only useful-

there is dreaming far above, and there is motion forever out on

the path to the city, but here a hundred-thousand moments flicker in

consistency, the heavy hiss of machines tracking out the global

record of success, gearing up for another day of pushing the earth

forward, closer together and a million miles apart-

they do not say a word, when the foreman releases them and they

trek to their cars and their headlights sweep the wide parking lot,

bright-marked the way to open bars and greasy spoons, a quick

fill-up, a laugh before the exhaustion over-sets, and the small

engines burn their oil-share, overhead the jets on their constant

paths there and back and those headlights showing them home