I wake to a slow dripping
outside my window,
click on the news,
then remember
the recycling has to go out.
My feet find
the path without
a flashlight. I wade
through faintly visible fog,
a soundproof room
inhabited by the automatic
lusts of insects.
Halfway to the road,
I come to a halt.
There in the darkness
at my feet,
I have put on my hope
and voted against sand
hindered from sleep
hardly able to open eyes
I look at any road
and see no road
nothing is now
out of the way
but I am resolved
to drive
the morning road
where she alights
and I who never loved
my heart a heavy shoe
cannot understand a purse
which is little yet mighty
the peak stands
alone as a drowsy god
against my plain
and ready road
Morning and the road
get me to write letters—
an urn for the last days.
A road of dirt and ash.
Deep in a hollow, a woman
resembling the sea,
considerable and weary.
The road called me,
a dog followed me,
but trouble came to my house.
Tomorrow I am to wait upon the sea.
We tell money
how to serve us without money:
on any given road,
several businesses and a bed.
books in the dull road like a dish of tripe
a meal of ill conception
books for the clerk
who tells me ill things
for the surgeon at a loss
what to do with her own body
for the bears
the road grows with us
the road is lost
though going the same way
the road is master to the clock
but not to clouds
the road is a thing
I seldom sit on
where I hear the difference
between fleet and gone
weary of staying
to pay for air
how little I would keep
like an office at night
A road is a table
upon which many
little worms creep
through stale,
gone things.