Inferno 8.5

[busker]

In August’s sapping heat
always trapped in highway traffic
those of us whose souls have shrunk,
neglected, an unwanted dog
that shrinks away from all stimuli.

There are two of us, driver and passenger
each uneasy with the other, 
our anxieties intertwined,
pressing into the backrests like hunchbacks.

this part I found to be Yeatsian, Eliotian, whatever you want to call it. It's fantastic poetry. The rest of the poem didn't quite match the quality of this middle part, IMO. But I think a poem with a shorter beginning and end, and this middle part as the core, would be worthwhile considering.

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On another note, it's interesting how a 12th century vision of hell, uninformed by even a fraction of the knowledge that we possess today, continues to inspire. I suppose, in the end, we are all in our individual dark woods, still looking for the straight path. And it's not the straight path of the Al-Fatiha, which predates the Commedia by a few hundred years.