Monday, January 14, 2008

Driving Interstate 15

you are receding into the distance
like a powerline
weaving directionally down the
labyrinthine highway
to the mountain,
showing more clear than white
on green how easterly I
am bound.
there is zen in cruise control--
a fixed truck driver distance
as dotted lines, fences, and
listless unmown yellow cow grasses
like a mystery
or a paragraph,
soliciting the right
foot brake, exit unknown,
a detour without cones or
orange signs,
a valley without a marker.
littered splotches of
tents bespangle the schoolyard;
a Philips 66; S Main Street
1 mile;
long and generous sprinklers
spew in stretched neighborhoods,
divide like a fault line the brambles.
you do not feel divided from me--
no jagged warring plates within my
behind, as a curious, sad yellow
wildflower which stole the notice,
the turning gaze, the straining neck
of this traveler,
leaving no trace but that
sunspot pupil memory
which fades
like the interstate, the segolily,
singularly each time it is recalled,
from peak before to peak after,
as if the rear views were
turned inwardly by one another,
one towards the other,
reflecting an infinity of roads,
of possible journeyers
like I,
of wheels in a constant rotational
good night,
is the whisper of the
good night,
my sweet prince.
the sky is wide before me
like a lake.

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