Interstate

In a few years, miles

have turned to minutes—strange

how the unturfed wheelpaths play

at being gates to distance; ways

not just for longhauls and commutes

but docks for the flyer, and threads

from above seen as righteous traces:

laid we can imagine essentially

and vitally as sinews in a hand

drawing its fingertips close together.

Pity the long paved door

can’t take on the fur-ruched finery

of the open field, or gut itself to course

with emptiness, buoyancy, and endless fishes. 

Shame that the line was crowned

over the plane, that the narrow dead 

paths of desire cut into the land

are only wagonruts we call by another name.

From my home to your heart

there is no line of habit to follow,

and all your doors are birds and

constellations (here the Oak of Rome,  

here the Lionhead, the Loom) moving

against the night like a smile on a pillow.

In a few years, our minutes

have turned to miles—strange

how the distance stands still by the road

and waits

until your eyes disappear into the woods

before it starts to lie again about the possibilities.