The Dangers of Standing Still
01.16.07

Tonight,
flick your low beams on
and wade through the remains
of a drawn and quartered cotton ball.

It’s a newly connotated lost,
knowing exactly where you are--
the street to your fast-approaching left
is Cherry, which will take you to Jackson,
and Scranton, and home,
all without luck, instinct
or road signs.

You knew you’d settle,
or claimed you did--
maybe, like rain pooling
in your woolen overcoat,
the thought pockmarked
your mind and was absorbed,
until you could hold no more.

The white elephantine clay
your young eyes molded
and watched the breeze sift
to a distant nothing
is lowered here,
within your almost-grasp,
obscuring unnecessary signs.