Juvenilia: Telephone Poles

Monday, August 16, 2010

The cool shade was left way back,
Back down the road.
I left it for
Parching sun
Parched grass
And an undiluted sky.

This bridge leads
Me on, with heat emitted:
Waves off of glass and hot rubber.
Tracks glitter
And seed the wind with gold dust:
Vanishing off into the landscape,
Swirling with something that isn’t quite color.

And the world drawn into
One small

I cannot see the end of this.
On my sides the grasses bristle with bronze points
For what do I walk this gantlet
Of rasping sounds?
What is there at the end to speak of?
Nevertheless, I follow the tracks
Of that bullet train
Suspended in the sky… Who knows?
If I keep going this way, I think I may really get somewhere, I will
Find it, whatever it is:
That vanishing point,
That pebble, the door in the wall.

A Deceit of Lapwings

All happy people are more or less dissimilar; all unhappy people are more or less alike.