The Journey


The ground mist moves towards us
in silent puffs
rearing at the headlights
grabbing each way at the windshield.

On each side a field
stands in the wings
waiting like an actor for his cue.
(I knew
those stone-pretending toads wouldn’t play chicken
with our rolling, squashing wheels.)
The road seems to quicken its threading race beneath us;
we do not move in our softly roaring bubble.
The stagehands prove
how clever they are at shifting scenery;
though lulled into belief
we really know the bush is rope-jerked greenery.

We find relief
in corners —
slowing down, catching our emotions before the next act.
The toads hunch waiting in the hollows;
road fawners —
then catapult like spotted chewing gum.
We kill some.

Caught up in our make-believe world
we want to travel alone, together, forever.
We want to be eternally hurled into darkness.

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