Flash Lit: Signs of Life

1

All day, all night.

Go.  Stop.

No left turn.

I wait, hoping,

poised on the edge

of the asphalt channel. 

Its yellow-painted banks cut straight across.

Always the same, no sudden spiraling

eddy, no sign

flashing:  Laugh.

At last, I dip

my toe in the concrete current.

The red hand blinks,

slaps me.

I drown in

the street.

2

In hindsight,

the sign does not say

yield.

It says nothing

with the smooth silver

back of its face.

Thrown up on this hard

sidewalk shore, the question is:

What is obedience?

The water goes around,

the rock wears down,

and which yields?

Looking down into the canyon,

the rushing black street,

does it matter?

3

Give me a sign,

eight-sided,

message clear from behind,

words or no words.

And yet:

Stop what?

Stop driving, says one.

Stop global warming.

Stop hate.

Or

stop breathing.

Just stop.

4

Press here to

cross street,

where the signs,

tangled like entrails,

are not auspicious.

Read the runes,

mark these markers,

follow this arrow

if you dare.

You have no guide,

no phrasebook,

only a tingling warning in the gut:

the natives are

unfriendly, unless

they are just unhappy—

the text is unclear,

obscure, obscuring.

Press on.

5

Two doors, two rooms—

taller or shorter,

narrow or wide,

does the choice change

what’s inside?

6

It’s like God, well,

God he got halfway—

called the post into

being,

left the bulb

to sprout another day.

It’s down in there,

somewhere,

the light, nestled

among the wires, sleeping

until the warm day,

that perfect beginning day.

The green shoot

will spring up, exuberant,

to flower

and the sidewalk

will be buried in white petals.