Inside a car Outside Buffalo where it gets far too cold to sleep with the windows cracked so the first light to hit your eyelids flickers filtered though frozen laborings of sleep saturated lungs frosted on the windows beyond which, in one direction lies Ontario, the great blue bulk of it draining into the Moon Driven Expanse of the Atlantic as fast as it fills back up, and in the other direction, the Angel of Duty Free Pricing presides over the Sunoco Filling Station's adjacent service plaza where, at some point, a parking lot was appointed the best practical reapplication for the Forest that no longer serves us, no longer serves a purpose at all since the woodland sprites of the area inhaled enough 6PPD-quinone particulate to induce intracranial hemorrhaging eyes-white skin yellowing then spotting brown stellar bodies now among single sneakers, apple cores, and half empty piss bottles destructive distillate going black to Vantablack swimming downward through the dirt, and if we should be so lucky back to yellow into pretty polyethylene mass manufactured to waterproof passengers on the Maiden of the Mist losing money in games of chance to the Keepers of the Western Gate a pittance for new shared life at the Little Log Wedding Chapel and Drive Thru kiosk just pass the crossing in a third direction the source of fractured light through frozen film a dull orange glow not dissimilar to that dull orange glow in the west through woods believed to reach the orient a dull orange glow once seasonal now a perennial feature of the great American west the Great American West once pursued and now smoldering and you just sit and you just sigh and momentarily see the eyes-white forest sprites and smell the bear grease to fortify ochre on a forever lose love's cheek and momentarily smell the toil of meaning and you blink and you blink and now the East grows brighter as you wake and stretch and sigh and make tribute to the Angel of 87 Octanes