Something from the past.



Specters Along The Highway

Illusions

Figures fade. People become trees, become
mist, and a notion past. Disappearances
are common. I accelerate, not sure
my headlights will ever break out of the fog,
or that the road behind is tied to the city
of departure.

Allusions

Figures smirk, point back, draw tenuous
connections: to a house in Western Australia,
an apartment overlooking the New Territories,
to Seattle, Washington. The road past Bear Mountain
is a loop from the Pacific Northwest. The future
is chained to the past with every specter
as it fades into bush, tree, signpost, bicycle,
headed in the opposite direction.

Elusions

Figures slip away, leave holes in the fog.
I’m on the road again, I search new cities
one step behind. Every town, city, poem,
has a thousand intersections. I catch a flash
in the corner of my eye, the tip of my pen;
I look too late. The road goes on,
cold, forever. My eyes
see more than I can digest.