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.
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