Thoughts on minimal lighting off I-70 west of Pittsburg

Hills, and roads carved tight through curves,
gravel seeded, and the sound of
yr tires, assaulted by jagged bits
of scar tissue, little flesh wounds,
the night settling into halos, yr
history's fiction, yesterdays prediction

all those trails and all only to wind
you through, substituting rhythm for
sleep, lighting cigarettes to remind you
how to breathe, playing with highway signs
and you wrap yourself in movement,
tumbling, who didn't see this coming,
you always flow towards the sea