THE ROAD TO EVERYWHERE
I drive but my head is elsewhere,
flaming, flecked or flagrant
in wet, dewy, naked toe-games,
or face down in meadow gold-dust,
or devoured some place
by the wandering stream.
I have a road to contend with
but try telling that to the honeysuckle petals,
or the feel of the grass at night underfoot,
or the back of the restaurant
when our parents refused to let go the salad bar
and we smoked or did we kiss
or did we merely chase the raccoons
from the overflowing trash bins.
And my headlights beam such a reduced arc,
no way they can contend with
the antipodes of thought,
ambergris, phalanges, phlox,
breasts, lips, endearing eyes;
try telling that to a GPS system,
or a roughly thumbed Street directory.
The world is divided up into places cars can go
and routes where distances are yet imagined.
My foot knows only brake or accelerate.
My mind does both, asks “then what?”
ON A METALLIC DAY IN THE CITY
The one steel foot
in all of Manhattan
kicked the one lead football
over the head
of the strontium man.
FROM THE APARTMENT ON CENTRAL PARK WEST
hung from the stars
crawling from the closet
brass lizards from the bridge tower