The road threads between the mountains
along the silver needle of the creek,
driving country roads, their twists and turns remain secretive,
until I learn each bend and curve anew
as it unwinds like an arrhythmic black snake or ribbon.
The intimacy comes with time;
and you look forward to certain bends
that remind you of other roads,
passing under the redwoods at Papermill Creek,
like with Sir Francis Drake Boulevard,
I’m beginning to recognize each particular bend,
not only by its forward face,
butt also how it looks coming other way,
in the mirror in late afternoon
like film clips played in reverse.
There’s an odd sensation like synapse
as the reverse image meshes with the current one.
No date. But this one was typed.
No comments:
Post a Comment