Coming back to nothing
across the marshed badlands
of freedom, the road
curling like a cloud
under the stars in session;

in another dream 
draped with weary eyes
that stare across the asphalt evening,
insistent as the highway 
signs that give the length
or direction from here

to Vermont;
only coming back 
for the ride from that island
and continuing as far
as the road in front of you,
as if that Chevy were a ship

returning across broader oceans,
taming the demon,
restless and wild; caressing
the tar, wishing you were
a painted canvas

with your oil wet
like the semis that continue
further in their fury,
moving with out
a damning but leaving you
standing at your door.


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