Exit 47 to New Haven

Pass the lipo sign, the come to Jesus 
in red capitals. Follow the briny breezes
of the Sound, where, on the fourth of July
large men in wife beaters refused to comply
with city ordinances, setting up three or four
booming speakers in truck beds. Now pass the shore
where you might, one cold morning, double-roll your 
pant legs and let toes till the mud-plush sea floor,
come upon a family of sleeping clams. From 
the US’s only PEZ factory and visitor center, come 
along the smooth highway filled with gathering
swallows and flocks of leaves hovered in the sputtering
car wake. Take exit 47. Alight via that raised strip
of precast concrete that curves upward and does not dip
until finally you are driving into the sun off the edge of
this world, returning home by air, feeling what must be love. 
Inside you is the same golden warmth as without. Your face
is lit by the burnished light reflected off that tall office space 
building on Church Street. There are no cars to witness
this splendour with you, none to share the water’s evening nimbus.
Now, as always, you wonder if you’re going the total wrong
direction down this smooth, empty exit ramp. But you can’t prolong
the vein-wired terror, or, for that matter, the ecstasy. So ease the break.
Touchdown and rejoin the gridded streets. Your face is flushed, hot, awake. 

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