poems by owen lucas

On the hill above white painted houses
a huge crucifix sicks straight up out
of the trees, sun breaking the clouds
to tease leafy treetops with Zion valley
glow, but the white painted cross is over-
cast, Golgotha darkness haunts its pristine
timber frame. Below, the highway churns
day and night, traced by blind juggernauts
and nine to five hatchbacks. The billboards
are rectangles, blank steel frames warming
in the radiation of the Odeon car park.
The sun is out, every windshield has
its nova glare, white hot. June was wet,
July is going to blister. On the red brick
outside the mall, a smell of burning rubber.