Poetry by Daniel Sumrall

Disorientation

When does it happen? Along the way,
as landscape slurs into passing by
and you are immediately gone,
the road map of went and to becomes
a line of proposal soon to build.

I can't stress enough the uneasy
surge, the tremble or treble shudder
in the sudden sigh of highway signs,
screaming points of lapsing horizon
that come and glide on meaninglessly.

Every I is an outline of some
town, a border weaving the farther
away from those astounded eyes so
sure of and unblinkingly now, here.

More Poetry
A Wretched Hand

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