ROAD
For years . . . my wish
The clarity of my own image.
I ran as a dark heavy cloud
Needing release
In dampness, as rain,
No longer able to absorb.
As escape, a personal exile,
Vanishing, traveling,
The horizon as self,
The carving highway
as a chisel,
The cry of the wind,
My voice as tearing tears.
In digging deep,
found only my other hand.
The wet dawn releasing a
breath of silent shimmer,
of might . . . and gone.
Vision: the two lines of a circle
At beginning, at end
Always.
1975
