by Will Simescu
Every sight is succor to starving eyes.
A dimly viewed ridge a hundred feet high
as striking as Mt Shuksan.
The blade of a wind turbine
splayed on a truck bed
longer than a blue whale
with a sign reading OVERSIZE LOAD.
They say Epicurus subsisted on bread
and water. He lived in a hole in the ground.
The smallest dab of honey
was an extravagance.
I am no Epicurus, I know
as I nibble, dissatisfied,
on a truck stop cinnamon roll.
I imagine him on the roadside
among snow-caked hay bales
watching the sky glow pink.
What would he make of it all?
Tan shoots of last summer’s grass
sprouting through hummocks of snow.
Lights blinking red at night.
All this immaculate pleasure
beyond the enveloping horizon.