The waters and the road stretch out,
shimmering emptiness that remains,
and then fade up against our skin.
They spill, over and again, onto the day,
these waves knocking the shore from itself
until all is reclaimed by the past.
The sun burns away and the distance
loses all dimension as we try
to leave the past with its own,
severing that noisy thread
which anchors the tinkering collection
of days behind us, to move on.
Finding the way back through the middle
to the beginning of things or perhaps
the end of something else, we search
for the gates of a passage through life
we or someone else passed before.
Always we keep the duffle bags
stuffed with greasy dreams and the
numinous engines hot to drive
the whole way tonight along the border,
only to arrive, pause, and head back
to where the sun dies in our arms.