Good road, how have you been
in the short, turning into
dastardly long, time
since I’ve been at the helm of myself,
breakneck down your gravelly spine?
Now I wonder:
What keepers maintain
the sage at your flanks,
the chain link that cuts off the green?
I come back to you carried, steering, with hands,
a cone of light flung forward
that makes all the yellow hashmarks reel,
from a thing, a thrumming engine
extra to myself,
as if upon nothing
through un-broken air.