It may be the onset of spring
or of some dementia
that well-traveled roads
seem unfamiliar,
each a new venture -
unpicked;
the easy stitching of unconsciousness,
journeys slung on ruminations,
riding rolling wheel rims
where everything comes back again, Jack,
in bitterness and poverty
(black-rubber-marked late-braking rage),
the psychosoma-synesthetic
landscape of our travels
and those metaphysics
jangling from events
we do not speak of.
Now, though I cannot shift a graveyard,
nor the 'The Bears Paw',
where the stone bridge narrows single file,
those dark grazes in my tunneling mind
behind,
round curves on verges, daffodils
return me to late daylight drawing out,
blinker me in gold to frame a smile.
