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