One Poem
by Gardner Dorton
Highway
Me, already wrecked
with false expression, have you noticed
that? & your reticent mouth
is already closed over every name I’ve so far
forgotten. So I come for you:
pockets of gravel, suburban haze, littered
roadkill. Forgive me, in misery
I let myself hope.
Do you recall? I promised nothing
more than silence. Keep pace,
I want to make it out of here
alive. I’ll try to be
a bit more concrete: the ash
wetting on your beer can.
The ash settled on our verbal meandering.
The morning light, a halo, yours.
I will try to be more
concrete: the pastel glow
of a Nintendo 64 loading screen. 4am,
again. My mouth, already
blurred by liquor, yours.
Maybe I will try to be a bit
more concrete: there’s a highway—
between our lips.
Gardner Dorton is a poet living in Knoxville, TN. His poems have been published in other journals like The Florida Review, Rattle, The Greensboro Review, and Narrative. His chapbook "Stone Fruit" was published in 2021 by Glass Poetry Press. He's probably vacuuming his dog's fur right now.