

I look out at the night’s river-water
sliding violently over one another,
speaking a language remembered
from another of earth’s ages, and almost
understand that speech as human, some
body of absence struggling with itself
under bridge lights. And remember
a winter spent driving a heatless car
with a patchwork quilt thrown over my legs
until more than the ghost of warmth existed
and I was alone on a country road under
a nothing sky with the stubbled fields
and the telephone poles flashing past
and the sense that if I closed my eyes
I might remain sitting, speeding along,
no car, and soon no road, and perhaps
the trees evaporate and the telephone polls
sink deep into hard earth and nothing
then but myself, and a river far off, and the name
of someone, and still no better understanding.