I'm wild for the sun on the road, the sword in my pants.
He who chooses the highway bare will attract travelers.
The gridworked ribbon winding toward the planet's light,
I watch the trees and houses dip out of shape.
Panoply of grief's music for faces
keys jagged in piano's work of hands
the shadow of the wooden leaf on canyons of strings
parallel singers in the wind of metal
booth mic'd and expressing the clitoral spider
of amplification.  Beaches that unfold in the mind
to lap the readers of sleep awake into its purified
consciousness of water
the desperation it does not reflect.