|© Beth Roberts|
Something to do with time and space, slip in the warp, halt in the tick,
but it feels like more than lack, doesn't it, feels like taking time straight.
I've seen lightning illuminate night's convexo-concave all night,
heavy with summer heat and with edges burning take the sky beyond
its perimeter, while along the highway's slow declination the arrow of the air
fell far. But in the world there are hard and fast rules concerning boundaries.
So far I've had bad pain, needed drink, and made myself hungry for looks.
And it may be vanity, finally, that claims the vehicle. But where was my head
that afternoon, with children at every window? And the time before that?
Time before that? . . . so heavy in thought that the body blew off
or weightless with thought while the body stayed, the blind body, traffic
on traffic, seducing a balance that held its sway with a mind on you till traffic
snapped and got away. Again the baby cries, a little unhurt, unwilling arena
for memory. Again some mechanism turns over