From car to car, a release, as of dangerously
held breath–The brakes, you say–we
begin again.
Again the glass, in its steady
abrupting of one vision for another one as
swiftly, as relentlessly abrupted, reminds
what I keep forgetting to understand–how
many things of this world exist merely
to be
got past:
the skinned landscape; across it, all
the hooved lives reduced to the one shuffle
in hard country;
the occasional hawk, but
none flying–
each seemingly more affixed
to than settled on this sidelined plow, that
fence-less fencepost … Here was a farm or
Here a field
–until what?
Against boredom,
restive, we play games like Name This Train.
I choose Wanton Disregard; you choose, as
always, Train of God–
you say, Everything
is God’s. The news, for easy enough miles,
is good; you will never know me; it won’t be
yours to fill, ever–this sweet, failed life.
